Murderer's Row
by Violent-Medic
Summary: Prison AU. After killing his roommate in self-defence, Donut is sentenced to life at Valhalla Penitentiary. Surrounded by conmen, blackmailers, murderers and the occasional psycho, it's going to be hard to live long enough to achieve parole... Pairings include: Church/Tucker, Grif/Simmons, Doc/O'Malley, Sheila/Lopez and past Church/Tex.
1. Chapter 1: Fresh Fish

**A/N: First of all, the beautiful picture that I'm using as the cover was fanart made by tttroy (as they are known on dA and y!gallery) and I have full permission to use it. And all their stuff is really good, so you should go look at it. **

**Okay, this is a very long (132 chapters not including backstory and sidestories) on-going prison AU that I have been posting for the last... two and a half years on other sites. Currently it's being rewritten to fix general inconsistencies, rewording, characterization (particularly with characters that were only revealed officially after I wrote them in) and tweaking a few events to make the events make more sense with said changes in characterization (though the basic story is basically the same.) I'm posting the redone version as I go along, so if you haven't read it on another site, I wouldn't recommend reading it on those sites because they won't be updated until I'm done editing.**

**If you have, no need to really re-read, I'll list the changes before I get started with new chapters on the other sites. (But if you do reread and leave reviews, avoid spoilers for chapters that aren't on here yet.)**

**WARNING: Violence, implied sexual situations and implied rape (no on-screen sex) and occasional character death. This is not a happy fic. Also man-on-man relationships, as well as some straight ones. You have been warned.**

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**Chapter One: Fresh Fish**

Donut was annoyed.

Granted, he had a lot of reasons to be. Anyone who was being sentenced to prison because they couldn't prove the death of their psychotic roommate was in self-defence would be annoyed. But they would be getting annoyed at other things. The fact that they were getting sent to prison, perhaps.

Donut's primary irritation at the moment was the orange jumpsuit that came with the territory. It was scratchy and chafed something awful. Not to mention the crotch wasn't roomy at all.

"Move along," the guard said, prodding him in the back with her nightstick. Donut quickly shuffled ahead to avoid being poked again by the woman marching him to the warden's office. He was fidgeting a lot. Trying to get the jumpsuit in a position where it would stop chafing. Maybe the jumpsuit was the real punishment. Spending the next twenty years, provided he got parole at the earliest point possible, in this itchy jumpsuit? That was probably, at least to Donut, the stage of Hell that was always left out to stop people wetting their pants and crying in fear.

As they got closer to the warden's office, Donut started thinking about the other problems that prison life was bound to have. The same bland food day in and day out. Doing laundry without fabric softener. The fact that when he left, he would be at least twenty years older. That part worried him the most. All his youth, gone. Gone!

Prison was just not an inviting prospect at all. He was far too pretty for prison. If the movies and occasional porno film had taught him anything, it was that he was basically currency in a place like this. He didn't want to be currency! Prison guys looked like apes, and that was waaaaay too close to beastiality. God, he hoped prison wasn't like in the movies.

Finally, the guard directed him through a door. Upon entering, Donut found himself in an office decorated with various war memorabilia. And seated behind the desk was a man in his late fifties, by Donut's guess. The plate on his desk simply read 'Sarge.' Though his war days were behind him, he still looked the epitome of the manly military man, crew-cut and everything.

"Sit down, Cupcake."

_Cupcake? Do I look like I'm covered in frosting?_ Donut's only audible response was a small grunt, as his fear of everything around him was making it hard to speak. He sat down, uncomfortably aware of the guard still standing behind him, her nightstick at the ready. Sarge climbed to his feet and walked around him. Donut wondered if this was some sort of intimidation tactic before Sarge snapped his fingers.

"Goshdarn it, you don't look like a sports man. You look like a pansy," he grumbled. "How is Red Team meant to smash the Blues into the dust if it consists of a pansy, a dirtbag and Simmons?"

"...What's a Red Team?"

"Damn the dibs rule, damn it to heck," Sarge continued, ignoring Donut's question entirely. "Damn Flowers, this is his fault. He called dibs on the last lifer, and we only have a cell open on the Red side. Conniving bastard. Well, you'll have to do. What's your name, Princess?"

"Um. Franklin Delano Donut. People always call me Donut."

"Well, I'm Sarge. Me and Captain Flowers are in charge of guarding you and the other criminals. Once we're done here, Tex will take you down to your cell. You'll be in the same cell block as the other murderers, both Red and Blue-"

"There's Blues as well?"

"-ya'll can have a nice chat with your fellow Reds about all the men you've gutted. It'll be just like in the army, son. Well, except what you did wasn't authorized by the military!"

"It was self-defence," Donut protested. Of course, he'd been protesting that ever since the police took him in, but it hadn't done anything.

"Yeah, kid, that's what they all say. Though to be honest, you don't look like no murdering scumbag to me. But all that means is that you're sneaky. ...Could always use a sneaky Red!"

"I'm not very sneaky."

"Sure you're not. Anyway, if you want to survive your time in here, you need to be manly and tough! Maybe get some of them prison tattoos."

_Ew, no._

"Lift some weights and such. Well, this prison doesn't actually have a gym. But improvise!" Sarge thumped Donut on the shoulder in what was meant to be a manly gesture of comradeship. It was the most painful display of manly affection that Donut had ever received. "Stay on my good side, don't trust those goddamn Blues and you'll live. Few scars, maybe, but a man should have a few scars to display his courage to the world! Tex, take him down to the cells."

The woman behind Donut nodded and prodded Donut in the back. "Come along, you."

Once they were far enough from the warden's office, Donut asked quietly, "Uh. Is he alright?"

"No. Sarge is insane," Tex said bluntly.

_Oh hooray, so the prison is run by someone who should be in a mental ward. That's comforting._

"And what's a Red?"

"Look at the ground," Tex said, as she guided him into the cell block. Looking at the floor, Donut saw that there were two stripes painted on the ground, one on each side of the walkway. The left one was red, the right one blue. "Sarge ordered the inmates to be divided into two colours and be forced to play sports against each other. Presumably out of boredom. He runs the 'Red' team, Captain Flowers runs the 'Blue' team."

"Erm. Which sports do they make us play?"

"Does it matter?"

It probably didn't. Donut wasn't brilliant at sports, with the exception of high school netball. He'd been fabulous at that, but somehow he didn't feel like that was a prison-ish sport.

"Anyway, you only play sports against the others in your section of cells. For you, that'll be the lifers who have committed murder, same as you."

As they passed one cell, he heard footsteps stir and someone whisper, "Hey, Tex. Tex!"

Tex came to a halt. "Goddammit, what? You, wait here," she ordered, before backing down the walkway a little to talk to one of the inmates, a man with black hair and a goatee. Donut couldn't hear what they were saying, since they kept their voices low. But he could swear, although it had been a very quick movement, one that looked like it'd been practiced many times, that the inmate had passed her something. A piece of paper, maybe?

After a few moments of talking, Tex walked back to Donut, slipping whatever the inmate had handed her into her pocket. The inmate with the goatee peered through the bars at Donut and grinned.

"Welcome to Hell," he said, in a slightly mocking tone of voice. Donut had no chance to reply before Tex started pushing him back along the walkway.

There wasn't much further to go. She stopped him again a few cells down and started rifling through her keys to unlock the cell. A minute later, the cell was open and she pushed Donut in none too gently.

The cell was sparsely decorated. A bunk with a lumpy mattress, footlocker, small desk, a stained toilet and equally stained sink. Every piece of furniture was bolted to the ground, presumably to stop one of the bigger inmates from clubbing someone to death with it. The cell smelt like someone had thrown up. Donut wrinkled his nose. Lace. The cell definitely needed some lace. Or at least a nice rug.

"Don't make a fuss. Lights go out in a few minutes. If you make any loud noise or act out in any way, you will be punished. Understood?" Without waiting for a response, Tex slid the door shut. There was a small clang as she did so.

That tiny clang felt like the loudest sound that Donut had ever heard. It rung in his ears afterwards. The noise was so... final. There was no getting out of this now. He was stuck here.

Donut felt his eyes prickle and tried to hold back the tears. He stood there for a while, silently trying to fight off the urge to sob. He stood there for so long that the lights went out before he even reached the bunk.

Life. He was here for life. His only chance at ever escaping this prison was parole, and he wasn't ellegible for twenty years. So that was what he had to do. Survive for twenty years without dying or going mad. He could do that.

He could do that.

He could do that.

...He couldn't do that. Who was he kidding? He wanted to cry before twenty minutes were up, how could he last twenty years?

But what other choice did he have?


	2. Chapter 2: Friendly Advice

**Chapter Two: Friendly Advice**

It felt like an eternity before Donut's cell door slid open again, although in reality it had only been nine hours. But after a sleepless night, Donut heard a guard yelling out something and the grinding sound of all the cell doors being opened. He heard the word roll call being yelled out.

Clambering up from his bunk, Donut edged closer to the cell door and peered out nervously. Other inmates were wandering to their doors as well. Some looked sleepy, while others looked like they'd been up for hours. In the cell on the right side of Donut's, a lanky red-haired man wandered out, mumbling something about how 'that lazy fatass probably wasn't up yet.'

A guard was pacing along the walkway, holding a clipboard. He was stopping in front of each cell, checking that the inmate was there and then ticking them off on his list. He stopped a couple of cells down and tapped the clipboard on the bars.

"Come on, Grif, you have to get up!" he called. There was an angry mumble in reply. "Yeah, fuck you, too. Simmons, make sure he doesn't try to stay in bed all day."

"Yes, sir," the red-haired inmate said quickly.

The guard nodded approvingly before moving on. When he stopped in front of Donut and squinted at his face, Donut noticed that one of the guard's eyes was damaged. There was a scar across it and the eye itself was milky white. Donut inwardly shivered.

"You're, uh..." The guard looked back down at his clipboard. "...Donut, right?" the man asked. A couple of feet away, the redhead snorted and mumbled 'seriously' underneath his breath. "If you have any questions, just stay right there. I know the warden isn't the easiest person to talk to and... which guard led you here?"

"Tex."

"Texas, huh? ...Yeah, you're gonna need a better guide. Stay right there."

The guard wandered off to continue the roll check. As he did so, the inmate he'd been shouting at, a tanned, overweight man, wandered out into the corridor. He was fumbling with a pack of cigarettes.

"Don't smoke that shit near me, fatass," the red-haired inmate complained. "Bad enough you're messing up your own lungs, don't screw mine up as well."

"Fuck you, that's a bonus," Fatass retorted. "Might shut up your kissassing. 'Yes, sir, I'll wake him up. I'll do that part of your job for you.' What's next, you gonna shine his shoes and give him a blowjob?"

Kissass just rolled his eyes.

The guard returned a few moments later. "Alright, to the cafeteria. Get going!" he called out. The inmates started shuffling down the corridor. The guard gestured at Donut to walk with him.

"Settling in alright?" the guard asked.

"Uh. Sure?"

"Frightened of everything?"

"...Yeah."

"Figured as much. You don't look like a prison regular. Anyway, name's York. I'm the nice guard." York reached out and shook Donut's hand. "Nice to meet you. Well, sort of. I mean, convicted felons aren't prime meeting material, but you know what I mean."

They were starting to fall behind the majority of inmates. Donut had already lost sight of Fatass and Kissass. (Fatass did look like the type to move fast when food was involved.)

"So, got any questions?"

"Uh, yeah. One. Um... is there anywhere I could get some lace? Preferably of the chantilly variety?"

York didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then his face broke out into a wide grin.

"Well, I didn't realise I was in the presence of a lady. What are you doing out of the female prison, ma'am?" he laughed.

Donut went bright red. "Shut up. Er, um... I mean... I'm sorry. Don't hit me."

"Relax. I would never hit a woman. Eh heh, but seriously. I'm not going to hit you for something like that. Like I said. I'm the nice guard. But most probably wouldn't smack you around for it. Now, I wouldn't recommend lacing up your cell... it's not the kind of attention you'd want in here."

"Yeah... I guess that makes sense."

"Now, if you really need something... I mean, I can't give you too much, can't give anyone special privileges, it's just not fair. But I can point you in the right direction. If I'm not around, the best bet would be to go to North. Don't muddle him up with the other Dakota twin, South."

"North and South Dakota?"

"Yeah, I guess the parents thought they were funny. Anyway, me and North are your best bets. South is a lot nastier, Tex is prone to ball-punching—I know, ouch—and Wash can be intimidating, though he shouldn't do anything as long as you don't get on his bad side."

They were nearing the cafeteria now. All the other inmates had already gone inside, and Donut could hear conversation going on.

"Oh, one more thing before you go in there." York stopped Donut before he could go into the cafeteria. "Now, don't take offence at this... but you really look like the snitch type."

"Eh? Oh. I guess I can see where that's coming from." He had been a pretty major gossip in the past.

"Well, I'm not going to advocate against it, exactly. I mean, I'm a prison guard. I can't say 'keep anything bad and illegal a secret.' But if you're going to squeal about anything, big or small... don't come to me. I mean this for your own safety, I cannot lie if my life depends on it. And a lot of the other inmates know that, so anyone snitches and gets someone in trouble... they'd come to me first. Just don't want to be indirectly responsible for someone getting shanked. Again."

"Again?"

"Well, fun chat! Go on, get in line before all the good food is gone. Well, for a certain value of good." York cheerfully slapped him on the back before wandering into the cafeteria. Donut reluctantly walked in after him and shuffled over to the line.

To Donut's mild surprise and delight, despite what the movies had told him and York's comment had implied, the food was not completely terrible. It wasn't gruel or bologna sandwiches, at least. Cereal, bread roll, a piece of fruit and a box of orange juice. Of cheap quality, it was true, but otherwise it was bizarrely similar to what Donut would have eaten at home if he didn't have time to cook. After being handed his lunch, Donut turned away towards the tables and came to a halt. The tables all had at least two inmates sitting at them. No empty table that he could retreat to.

Donut stood there blankly for a full two minutes, trying to figure out who looked the least likely to tear out his liver and wear it as a hat. Maybe he could eat in his cell. Sure, it smelt like puke, but...

Donut took a step backwards and hit a brick wall. Only it couldn't be a brick wall, because he was standing in the middle of the cafeteria. Donut was almost too terrified to turn around, but he managed it and came face to face with a wall of orange. He had to look upwards to see the inmate's face.

_Oh. My. God. Giant, blond ape._

"Please don't hurt me," Donut squeaked.

_Smooth, Donut. Very brave of you._

The inmate blinked slowly at him. Donut was slowly going into a horrible panic. He knew how this was going to go. The inmate would grin that 'you're-my-bitch' grin and make a lot of comments about his prettiness (_because goddammit, I'm really freaking pretty_) and then he'd somehow arrange to become his cellmate because all the crazy raping psychos had connections and _OH MY GOD HE'S GOING TO KILL ME AND TURN ME INTO A COAT._

However, all those thoughts flew out the window as soon as the inmate opened his mouth and the most cheerfully dimwitted voice Donut had ever heard came out.

"Hello! You are the new person! ...You are very tiny!"

"I'm not that tiny. You're just ginormous," Donut muttered under his breath.

"Oh. Right. My name is Caboose. Church said that was a fitting name, but I do not know what he meant by that." Caboose reached out and shook Donut's hand cheerfully, nearly breaking all his fingers in the process. "I saw you come in yesterday. You are on the Red side! Which means, according to the angry man, that we are mortar M&Ms."

"What? ...Did you mean mortal enemies?"

"Yes. Mortar M&Ms," Caboose said seriously. "Because of the colours. Red M&Ms are meaner. That is what television said. But we will be the best, most friendliest mortar M&Ms ever."

Donut was completely lost at this point. He felt it best to simply agree. "Uh, sure. M&Ms for life."

Caboose smiled brightly at him. "Yay." The smile dropped off his face as he glanced at something over Donut's shoulder. "You should come with me. O'Malley is watching and he is a scary, scary man." Donut started to turn to see what Caboose is looking at, but Caboose grabbed his shoulder before he could. "No, do not look. O'Malley does not like that, and when he does not like things... then those things tend to get poked."

"Okay?"

Caboose started steering him through the cafeteria. "You do not look like a murderer, Mister... uh..."

"Donut."

"I miss donuts as well. Especially the kind with sprinkles."

"No. That's my name. And I'm not a murderer. It was self-defence. I'm a victim of circumstance."

"You are not guilty, too?"

"No, I'm... wait, you're innocent as well?" Donut asked curiously. Now that he was getting over the sheer size of Caboose, he didn't seem that scary. He just seemed like a little kid who'd been fed way too many steroids.

"Yes." Caboose frowned for a moment. "I did not kill anyone. They fell. And somehow strangled themselves at the same time. We do not think it was anyone's fault."

Scratch that. He was still terrified.

That terror increased once he realised where he was being pushed to. There was a table in the far corner. Sitting there, he saw the Goatee Inmate that Tex had stopped to talk to. He also saw Fatass and Kissass. The only inmate at the table that he didn't recognise was the black guy talking to Goatee Inmate.

Not fearsome on their own. They didn't look terrifying at all, honestly. But they were all from his section of the prison and everyone in his section of the prison was in here for murder. That made them the dangerous ones.

Donut attempted to dig his heels into the ground to stop Caboose from pushing him forward, but it did little good. He just kept sliding towards them. Finally, they reached the table and Caboose let go of his shoulder before plopping into a seat, where a tray of food was already waiting. The other four inmates at the table looked up.

"Erm. Hello," Donut attempted to say casually. What came out was something between a squeak and a croak.

Silence for a few moments. Then Kissass jerked his head towards an empty chair. When Donut didn't move, he snorted.

"Come on, Donut. Your legs still work, don't they? Sit," Kissass said. He nudged the chair with his foot, sliding it out a little. Donut took a deep breath before sitting down, his tray clattering down in front of him.

Kissass nodded and stuck his spoon into his cereal. "Not adjusting well, are you? Can't blame you. Prison is shit scary at first. No-one's hit you yet, right? ...Probably wouldn't have had time, unless one of the guards had a whack at you. And that's rare, only for the real scumbags."

"Um. No, no-one's..." Donut mumbled, trailing off in the middle of his sentence. Kissass just nodded again.

"Been there. Don't worry. Might be hard at first, but have to settle in. Anyway." He ate a spoonful of cereal before continuing. "I'm Simmons." Simmons gestured at Fatass, who was sitting next to him and arranging the food on his plate so that the fruit was off on one side. "And this cockbiting fatass is Grif."

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" Grif said under his breath as he fiddled with his food. Simmons went slightly pink but otherwise ignored the comment.

"And over there are the so-called Blues. So don't socialise with them while the warden is around, or he'll accuse you of fraternizing with the enemy," Simmons said, nodding.

"It's garbage," Grif snorted.

"It's not total garbage..."

"No, Simmons. It's garbage. You just won't say it just in case Sarge hears you with his superpowered hearing."

Simmons grumbled and looked upwards. "I never said superpowered hearing. I said tiny microphones in the walls."

"Still bullshit."

"Anyway." Simmons pointed at Caboose. "You met Caboose already, right?" He pointed at the black guy, who was talking to Goatee Inmate while making some rather crude gestures with his hands. "That's Tucker. And the jackass with the goatee is Church."

"I heard that, dick!" Church snapped, glaring at Simmons.

"I know." Simmons glared right back before picking up his piece of fruit. He dropped it on Grif's tray and swiped Grif's bread roll. "So. Murder?"

"Self-defence," Donut sighed. He was getting tired of protesting, though. Simmons snorted.

"Doesn't make a difference if you can't prove it. I suppose you meant to just fend them off and then panicked, right? Or you did too much damage?"

"The judge said too many stab wounds," Donut mumbled. "How'd you guess?"

Simmons shrugged. "Lucky, I suppose. You're not the only guy who killed out of panic, it's not all cold, planned shit."

Donut had been about to ask why Simmons was in there, but he was interrupted by Grif leaning over the table.

"Hey, new kid."

"Donut."

"Yeah, I'm not calling you that. You gonna eat the fruit?"

Donut looked down at his untouched food. He felt too nervous to eat, and he wanted to stay on everyone's good side. "You can have it."

Grif grinned before picking up the piece of fruit. "Thanks."

"If you don't mind me asking... why the pile of fruit? Do you just really like fruit?"

Simmons laughed. "Grif liking something healthy? Fuck no."

"Healthy food is for chumps," Grif said. "Nah, I'm making pruno." He moved the fruit he had bargained off Simmons and Donut to the side, along with his fruit, before calling out to Caboose. "Hey, Caboose! Trade you orange juice for your fruit."

Caboose nodded and slid his tray towards Grif, who swapped the orange juice and fruit. Caboose hummed happily and picked up the orange juice carton. Grif turned back to Donut.

"You know what pruno is?" Donut shook his head. "Alcohol. Jail liquor. Do you know how fucking difficult it is to procure proper alcohol in here? I mean, might be able to bargain a bottle of whiskey off Wyoming every now and again, but it's expensive as hell. So. Pruno."

"It's fucking disgusting," Simmons muttered. "You know how he makes it? He dumps fruit, old bread crumbs, orange juice and other junk in a plastic bag and lets it rot under his bed."

"Eww."

"You two can complain all you want," Grif said in a holier-than-thou tone of voice. "But how else is a man meant to pass the time other than getting completely drunk off his ass?"

"Like that's gonna make the time pass quicker. Dumbass," Simmons muttered. "If the guards catch you brewing that, it'll be a black mark on your record. Might fuck up your parole chances."

"It'll be totally worth it," Grif said confidently. "Keep acting like that, kissass, and I won't let you have any."

"Whoop-de-fucking-do."

As Grif and Simmons continued to bicker, Donut looked around at the rest of the table. Caboose, for some reason, had dumped his cereal out of the bowl and onto the tray, and was now sorting it into two neat piles. Tucker was still making crude hand gestures and Donut caught the words 'bow chika bow wow' in his speech at least once. Church was staring down at his tray with a scowl and doing his very best to ignore Tucker, but occasionally he'd glance at Donut. It made Donut uneasy.

As Donut finished chewing his cereal (it wasn't too bad, although the flavor left something to be desired), he heard a clanging sound and a guard yelling something. Many of the inmates started to get to their feet, including everyone at the table.

"What's happening?" Donut asked Simmons.

"Work. You would have been assigned laundry duty, right?"

"Oh. Yeah, they mentioned something about laundry duty."

"Thought so, they do that for a lot of the lifers. You might be able to change jobs if you really don't like it, but it'll require special talents or good behaviour or something similar. Grif tried to get a job in the kitchen a while back, but fucked it up."

"They said I'd steal food. I wasn't going to steal that much..." Grif complained. His stockpile of fruit had vanished from his tray. Donut wondered where he was keeping it.

They dropped off their empty trays and started moving towards what was presumably the laundry room. On the way, however, Simmons slowed down a little and tapped Donut on the arm, gesturing for him to hang back a little.

"Look," Simmons muttered. "I didn't want to say this back in the cafeteria... but be careful about what you say around Church. Tucker and Caboose, as well, but Church especially."

"The goatee guy? Why?"

Simmons opened his mouth to explain, but then he noticed that there were guards close enough to hear. Tex was one of them.

"Look, I'll explain later. Just... try not to talk to him. And if you have to... don't blindly accept anything he tells you, don't tell him anything you don't have to and whatever you do... don't piss him off. I mean, really piss him off."

"Alright. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Seriously, don't."


	3. Chapter 3: Snitch

**Chapter Three: Snitch**

Orange was quickly becoming Donut's least favourite colour.

It had been less than twenty-four hours since he had first donned the orange jumpsuit himself, but the ugly orange colour was everywhere. The laundry room was even worse than the rest of the prison about this. Everywhere he looked there were stacks upon stacks upon even more stacks of orange jumpsuits.

Donut normally liked doing laundry. He certainly had at home, but he'd had fabric softener there. Donut liked nice, clean clothes that had been soaked throughly in fabric softener so that it felt like he was wearing clouds. These jumpsuits at best were coarse and itchy, and at worst they were horribly stained and sometimes torn. Most of the time Donut could guess what had made the stains, as he'd had more than enough experience trying to get various stains out of his own clothes.

_Yellow stains. Macaroni? Oh good, that means they must serve macaroni for lunch or something._

Plus, there was his curiousity nagging at him about what Simmons was going to tell him. Donut had been skirting around Church, which was difficult considering they were stuck in the same laundry room. And because Church was constantly nearby, Donut couldn't ask Simmons more questions.

_Ew, white stains. Honestly, don't they have the decency to clean themselves up afterwards? That. Is. Totally. Gross._

It was driving him insane. Although proper insanity would probably help the time pass quicker. Then he might not notice his youth slipping away from him. He was still majorly bummed about that. He wasn't even twenty-one yet. He'd just reached the beginning of what were supposed to be the best years of his life, and wham. Prison. By the time he got out, he'd be at least in his forties. By then your life was practically over. If Donut ever got out of here, he was going to do background checks on all his roommates.

_Oh crap, those are bloodstains. Large bloodstains._

As Donut wondered what the best method for getting bloodstains out of a jacket was and bemoaned the absence of fabric softener from his life, he heard someone speak up behind him.

"Why do you keep skirting around me like I'm a goddamn disease?" Church asked irritably, making Donut jump. And shriek a little, though he quickly clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself making too much of a scene. "Well? Why are you avoiding me?"

Donut opened his mouth to answer Church's question, before closing it again. He didn't actually have an answer. At least not one that wouldn't condemn Simmons.

"Uh. Well, uh... you know, these clothes could really use some fabric softener!" Donut said, trying to turn Church's attention to the first thing which occurred in his mind. Church looked at the jumpsuit that Donut was brandishing his hands at, then back at Donut.

"Okay, are you trying to act gay? Because people a few hundred miles away can already tell."

"Crap! I mean, uh... don't know what you're..."

Church snorted. "Come on. You have bleached blond hair and you wave your hips around far too much."

"Do not."

"Yes, you do. Way too much for a straight guy. Add in the lace thing, and..."

"How'd you know about the lace?"

"Well, when you act like a fucking idiot and broadcast your 'manly' urges to decorate your cell with the garbage..."

"I told one person!"

"Yeah, you did." Church rested against one of the washers, although he looked around first to make sure none of the guards were watching him, making sure they wouldn't yell at him for slacking off. But the only guard in the room was York, and he was distracted trying to figure out how Caboose had managed to get his head stuck in one of the many jumpsuits lying around. "My point is, you're either really gay or just really girly. In here? People don't give a shit about the difference."

Donut tried to edge away from Church, but Church just moved forward at the same time so that they stayed the same distance apart. It was rather unnerving.

"Now, if that's the mental image you want to broadcast, go ahead. It's still more classy than Tucker's 'fuck anything with enough orifices while claiming that he's totally straight because he called no homo before he did it' thing. Classy motherfucker."

"Fuck you, I'm classy as shit!" Tucker called out from elsewhere in the room.

"Sure you are. Anyway... I'm just saying it's a shit idea. Broadcasting the girliness, I mean. You know what happens to girly guys in prison, right?"

"Used as currency?" Donut asked nervously.

"Fuck no. Why would they trade you away? You're the closest thing this prison has to a woman, and I'm including Tex and South in that." Church snorted and mimed carving something with his hands. "They'll be tattooing their name on your ass and make you a prison trophy wife."

Donut quickly stepped away from Church, at the same time instinctively tugging his jacket down in an attempt to cover his butt. "Please don't do that!"

"What? No! No, no, no. Fuck, what kind of sicko do you think I am?" Church looked angry at the insinuation. Donut quickly backtracked.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like... you were just... it kinda... sounded... fabric softener..."

"No, just... no. I don't do that shit. Fuck, even Tucker will at least ask. I'm trying to warn you, dipshit! I'm not going to jump you. That's gross. But what I'm saying is that there are guys that will. The sick, desperate types. And sure, the guards will stop it if they see it... but not until then. They don't trust just anyone's word."

"What? But... I mean, if someone told them..."

Church shook his head. He watched York try to pull the jumpsuit off Caboose's head for a few moments. "Look, I'm not saying they wouldn't. Most of the time, anyway. Thing is, they don't know who's lying and who isn't. Few years back, there were a whole bunch of false accusations. Hoaxes to get people into trouble. Now the guards don't believe anyone."

"Eep."

"Yeah, fucking eep."

Donut was twisting the bloodstained jumpsuit in his hands nervously. He knew he was going to have to iron it, but his brain was too busy supplying him with horrible, vivid imagery to concetrate on things like wrinkled clothes. While the only gigantic, scary-looking inmate he'd met so far seemed fairly harmless, he still hadn't let go of the mental image. And if they were all as big as Caboose he'd probably get torn in two.

God, he should not have watched all those movies. No more prison films. No more prison-themed gay porn. Not that he felt like watching them anymore. Prison in real life was way, way more than enough.

"Why are you telling me this?" Donut asked quietly.

"Why not? You seem like an easy target, that's all. And few people deserve it. So... you have three options here. One, you could just accept that people are going to corner you and try not to struggle too much. It'll be painful, humiliating and you'll be forever labelled as a bitch.

"The second option? Well, you could try and fight back." Church snickered a little here. "Er, if you can call that an option. I mean, you're built like a sixteen-year-old girl. Try to punch a giant bull-queer in the face and..."

"Yeah, I... you don't need to explain..."

"Good. Then you're not quite as dumb as you look. Which isn't saying much, but whatever. Third option."

Donut stopped twisting the jumpsuit and started attempting to flatten it out again, trying to get the wrinkles he'd caused out. He couldn't even guess what the third option was, but given that the other two were... well, unpleasant... the third couldn't be worse, could it?

"What's the third one?"

"Protection. I can organize things so that no-one can touch you."

"Really? You can do that? Wouldn't that be difficult? I mean, if guards can't always keep things safe..."

"The difference is that a guard has to look out for the entire prison, and the inmates outnumber the guards many times over. It's basically one guard for every few dozen inmates. I get someone keeping an eye out for you... well, they're just looking out for you. Maybe a couple of other people, depends who it is. It's much more exclusive. Like one of those clubs that sell the fruity drinks but only let you in if you're well-dressed, to put it in your sort of language."

"...Are you insinuating that gays speak a different language?"

"Deal?"

"I don't have anything to trade."

"Not right now. But maybe that'll change. Maybe you'll see or hear about someone doing something they shouldn't. Anything that might get people into trouble. Attacks, smuggling, even just plans to stick it to someone. If you heard anything like that... well, I'd consider it valuable enough."

"...Oh my god." Donut pointed a still-manicured finger at Church. "You're a prison snitch."

"I'm not a fucking snitch!" Church snapped, though in a hushed tone. "I'm... just a blackmailer. It's more beneficial to my health than being a snitch." He crossed his arms, scowling. "I'm silent as long as people pay the price. There's a difference."

"Doesn't sound like it..." _Idiot, Donut! Don't make him angry!_ "I mean, yeah! Sure. Difference. Loads of difference. So, you want me to pass information along to you? Like, secret stuff?"

"If you hear anything, yeah. I mean, you could probably save up enough from this laundry job to pay with instead, but... ten cents an hour isn't much. Could build up your own little inside business to earn money from the other inmates... selling spare food or jailhouse liquor, or something... but that'd take time. And the longer you wait..." Church trailed off and shrugged. "But odds are you'll hear something interesting soon, there's always some kind of dirty business going on. So, what do you say?"

Donut still thought it sounded like snitching, and he knew nothing good happened to snitches. Of course, Donut was a gossip and it would probably take a lot of self-restraint to stop himself from blabbing out information.

But snitching? Donut would prefer to live.

Still, he was a little afraid to say a straight-out 'no' to Church. After that warning earlier, and the fact that Church just made him uneasy...

"I... will consider it," Donut said slowly, turning back to his laundry.

"Suit yourself, Donut. But the longer you wait, the longer they have to jump you. Just a friendly warning. And trust me when I say you're gonna need friends in here. You ain't gonna survive otherwise."

"Right... okay..." Donut mumbled, picking up his laundry basket. Church wasn't matching his steps anymore, and Donut wanted to leave while he could. As he hurried off, he caught Church's parting words.

"Tell Simmons to keep his fucking mouth shut."


	4. Chapter 4: Dark Rumors

**Chapter Four: Dark Rumors**

"Shit. How'd he know?" Simmons didn't seem to be eating his macaroni. Instead, he was absent-mindingly grinding his spoon against the bowl, squashing the macaroni into unrecognisable mush. "Bastard. Can't take a shit without him hearing about it somehow."

"Sorry," Donut muttered, staring down at his own food. Lunch was edible, though like the cereal he'd been served for breakfast it seemed somewhat lacking in flavour.

"Don't bother apologising, I'm not blaming you for it. Didn't tell him, did you?"

"No."

"Then it isn't your fault. I swear Church has ears planted in the walls, sometimes. But I probably wasn't careful enough when telling you, it's just me fucking up."

Simmons and Donut were the only ones currently at the table. Grif was being held up, as he'd apparently been a smart mouth to Sarge and gotten punched in the stomach for it, something that Simmons assured Donut was a regular occurrence. As for Church, Tucker and Caboose, they were still lining up for their food.

"So, he just goes around blackmailing everyone?" Donut asked, looking over at the three. "How does he keep getting away with it? I thought snitches got, you know..."

"Well, technically he's not a snitch."

"Right. 'Blackmailer.' It still sounds like snitching to me."

"Yeah, I know. But don't say it out loud. Besides, he doesn't always pass information along to the guards." Simmons continued to mash his food absently, glancing around the room. "Sometimes he does, like if he's got proof of crimes that you weren't ever charged with, or if he knows you're up to something within prison like smuggling or making illegal substances. But a lot of the time, he shares this stuff with other inmates instead.

"For example..." Simmons pointed his spoon at a man with a ridiculous mustache reminiscent of the dastardly villains that would tie damsels to train tracks. "Take Wyoming. Big smuggler, he's the guy to go to if you want anything in this prison. But then someone else starts muscling in on his territory and smuggling stuff in for a cheaper price. Church keeps an ear out, figures out how the guy is getting his stuff. Quietly informs Wyoming. Then Wyoming can do what he wants to put a stop to it. But Church might instead choose to hold the information over the other guy's head. Keeping it a secret in exchange for payment. Money, a discount or first dibs on anything the other guy brings in, more information... whatever he needs."

"And this never gets him attacked?"

"He's a slippery motherfucker. Trust me, there are so many people around here who would love to give Church a good pounding. God knows I would. But if I tried, well... yeah, I don't want him letting some stuff out," Simmons muttered.

"Like what?"

"I'm not telling you." Simmons gestured at Donut with his spoon. "I don't know you well enough to know you won't end up a snitch or blackmailer as well." He went back to mashing his macaroni. "I did a lot of bad stuff on the outside, and I don't want any more years added to my sentence. Let's just leave it at that."

Before Donut could pester Simmons for more details (because he was curious, and it was not in Donut's nature to leave secrets be) Grif plopped down beside them. Rather than the macaroni, vegetables and juice that Donut and Simmons had been served, Grif had some weird kind of loaf stuck on his plate. It looked a little like the macaroni (it was the same basic colour) but it had been molded into a loaf shape. Grif glared at the plate, and Simmons gave a small chuckle.

"What. Is. That?" Donut asked, gazing at the strange loaf with morbid curiosity.

"The log," Grif muttered bitterly. "Punishment food." Simmons just snickered again. "Shut the fuck up, Simmons."

"Is it poisonous?"

"I'm told no, though the taste would make you think otherwise." Grif prodded it with his spoon moodily. "Has all the nutrition that they're required by law to put in our food, so it's their way of ruining the best part of the day without breaking that law."

"Can... can I try it?" Donut said. "I have to know what it tastes like, it can't be as horrible as you're claiming."

Grif snorted. "Oh, you'll see." He slid the tray towards Donut, who stuck his spoon in and pried away a small glob of it. (The log was strangely gelatinous.) He stuck it in his mouth and chewed on it for a moment before going slightly green.

"Mmph," he groaned, as Grif and Simmons both burst out laughing. Without any napkins to spit the mouthful into, Donut was forced to swallow it. "Oh my god, that is putrid!"

"Congratulations, Donut, you've past the first step into becoming a true member of this prison," Simmons said, grinning. "If you withstand the log, you can withstand anything." Grif nodded in agreement, though he was still laughing too much to actually speak. It was rather infectious, and Donut smiled despite the fact that it felt like his insides were shriveling up in response to the mouthful of 'log.'

Grif finally regained his calm enough to talk again. "Ah, good times. Good 'tormenting-the-rookie' times. So, what're we talking about? Anything good?"

"Oh, right. The Church thing."

"Ah. Fucker."

"Mmhm." Simmons started gesturing at the walls with his spoon. "Anyway, like I said. Church has ears in the fucking walls. Too many connections. I mean, he's also got Tucker—"

"Graaahfucker," Grif growled under his breath.

"What Grif said. Tucker might act like a fucking idiot... and actually turn into one if there's a set of boobs in the room... but that guy's got a fucking silver tongue when it matters. He was a con-artist on the outside, so he knows how to get to people."

Grif poked moodily at the log on his plate. "Fucker," he muttered bitterly. "One minute, he's bonding with you over laziness and a mutual love of pornography, and then suddenly Church is blackmailing you with the fact that your sister is doing a whole bunch of weird drugs and that it would just take one urine test to get her arrested."

"My advice is to start carrying around a porno magazine to distract him with," Simmons said. "Boobs are Tucker's krytonite."

"Okay." Donut started prodding his food around, more focused on the conversation than actually eating. "So, this works on everyone? Just threatening them with blackmail?"

"Not everyone. Some people just don't have anything they can be blackmailed with. Maybe they don't have anything that they haven't already been charged for, or maybe they're just too batshit crazy to care what Church tells anyone. But they still can't touch him because he's also got Caboose. Would you want to attack him with Caboose standing there?"

Donut shivered. "Definitely not."

"Exactly. And on top of everything else, he's got this thing with Tex. Don't know exactly what's going on there, but having a connection to the guards... well, there's perks to that. She can help him get things and I'm pretty sure she warns him whenever someone that he might want to talk to is coming into the prison. He probably knew you were being brought here long before you actually got here."

Donut was still pushing his food around on his plate. Again, he was starting to feel too nervous to eat. "Is she allowed to do that?"

"No. But they wouldn't fire her. Tex is too good a guard. Probably the best." Simmons drummed his fingers against the table for a moment before eying Donut. "You didn't make Church angry, did you?"

"Um. A little. I might have said the snitch thing out loud," Donut admitted. Simmons groaned. "Why? Is he one of the, erm... easily offended stabby types?"

"Mm. No, you're probably okay, for now. Honestly, Church is easy to make mad, there'd be no-one left if he stabbed everyone who pissed him off. But..." Simmons pulled a face and shook his head. "Suspicious incidents do tend to crop up that guy."

"Suspicious—"

Donut was interrupted by Simmons raising a hand to shush him, still watching the cafeteria line and waiting to see if Church was about to come over. While Simmons confirmed that Church was still occupied, Grif took the chance to steal his macaroni.

"Eh? Hey! Grif, give me back my food!"

"Licked it."

"Fuck!"

Grif sniggered and stuck a spoonful of the half-crushed macaroni in his mouth. "Tastes like victory. Anyway... pretty much, whenever people annoy Church too much... they tend to die. Like Phil and Joannes."

"I think his name was Jones," Simmons said.

"No, it was definitely Joannes."

"What happened to them?"

"Well, Phil was a guard that really had it in for Church," Simmons said, while starting on the remainders of his lunch. "Most of the guards don't really care one way or another, but Phil really hated him. Maybe one of Church's activities on the outside affected his family or something, he never did stop bitching about being a single parent.

"So, one day there was some kind of fight between them and Church landed in the infirmary for a week. The very next day, there was a riot in the cafeteria. Phil was killed while trying to get everyone to calm down. Couldn't find any proof of what happened precisely... but his head had been like a grape. Very few prisoners are strong enough to do that. Caboose being one of the few. I don't know if he actually did it, or if it was on Church's orders or not, but I wouldn't put it past them. And if we tried asking Caboose, he'd probably insist the man 'fell and crushed his head at the same time.'"

Donut winced. "And Joannes? Or Jones, or whatever his name is..."

"Jones was a con-artist as well. More importantly, he wasn't willing to go along with Church's bullshit. When Church attempted to blackmail him, Jones just tried blackmailing him right back. There was quite a war between those two, and Jones actually managed to get the upper hand on occasion. But not long afterwards... they just found him dead in his cell. Hung himself."

"But that's... that's suicide, right? Not murder..."

"Maybe. But, well..." Simmons sighed. "Tucker had been talking to him a lot recently. He probably could talk someone into suicide if he tried. We're in prison, after all. There isn't much happy stuff in our heads to begin with. Maybe Tucker, or Church even, talked him into it. Or maybe he was just tired of prison life. But it was just too convenient..."

Simmons clammed up immediately as Church, Tucker and Caboose finally headed towards them. Church grunted in recognition of the three as he sat down, Tucker grinned and winked at Donut as he passed by, and Caboose greeted him with a cheerful 'Muffin Man!' Now that the topic of the conversation was sitting at the table, Simmons returned to arguing with Grif, this time about the various incidents that had occurred between Grif and Sarge, usually ending with a punch in the gut.

They all seemed so at ease. While Donut was trying not to shake or start fiddling with his food or betray any signs of nervousness. It took everything he had not to freak out just looking at Caboose (' his head had been like a grape') building a little tower with his macaroni, or Tucker ('could talk someone into suicide if he tried') making jokes about boobs, while Church ('whenever people annoy Church too much... they tend to die') steadily ignored him.

Even Grif and Simmons, Donut was a little suspicious of now... sure, aside from the swearing and bickering they were nice, but what had they done to land themselves in prison? Why were they hanging around Church if he was such a blackmailing douche bag? And despite talking to the two of them the most, Donut knew even less about them than about the others, and the unknown was in some ways scarier.

Then again, the unknown wasn't that bad... Donut had definitely been less afraid before Simmons had explained things to him. He kind of wished he hadn't been told anything.


	5. Chapter 5: Psycho With A Screwdriver

**Chapter Five: Psycho With A Screwdriver**

Donut breathed a sigh of relief once they were allowed to go outside. He had never liked being inside for too long and that feeling was quintupled once you were surrounded by brick walls, bars and ugly orange jumpsuits.

Sure, the yard wasn't pretty. It was made out of grey concrete, grey concrete and more grey concrete. There were walls surrounding it. Donut could see the huge gate which he had gone through less than twenty-four hours ago. Most of what he could see was concrete, wire and guards. There were a few pigeons which hopped around the emptier parts of the courtyard, which reminded Donut of the park back home, with the old people tossing bread at the pigeons. Donut didn't really like pigeons much, they were too smelly and diseased. And in a strange way, the grey pigeons matched the grey walls and the grey concrete floors.

But Donut could see the sun. That was something.

Donut sat down pretty quickly. He didn't think doing his exercises around the prison inmates was wise. And there was no way he was going to ask people he was terrified of to hold his ankles while he stretched out his hammies. Not yet, anyway. And he wanted to be by himself for a while, so he could think. Not that he could really be by himself in a yard filled to the brim with criminals of all sorts... but it was the thought that counts.

Grif muttered something about having a smoke away from the guards (although there were guards everywhere, so the effort was mostly futile) and he dragged Simmons along with him so Simmons could keep a watch out, although Simmons protested both to the smoking and being dragged off. Church was currently bartering with one of the older looking inmates about something or other on the other side of the yard, with Tucker putting in the occasional comment and Caboose standing to one side, fascinated more by the pigeons than the bartering.

Donut made to twist part of his hair around his finger, a nervous tic he had often performed on the outside, but he stopped halfway. Another girly motion. Not performing any girly or gay motions at all was proving to be difficult. Donut was quick enough to admit that he was very much a stereotypical gay guy, and squashing that and trying to act like... well, a straighter guy... was very hard. He had tried walking without swaying his hips earlier, but he must have been walking even weirder because Grif had assumed he was 'constipated or some shit'.

_I hate this place. I can't even walk how I used to!_

Donut glared angrily at the concrete ground, too concentrated on it and how much he hated grey concrete, to hear the quiet footsteps behind him. Donut didn't notice anything until something was jammed against his back. Something pointy.

"Don't look surprised. Don't look shocked or upset. Pretend we're having a normal, pleasant conversation. Don't even turn around." These words were half-mocking in tone, and it almost sounded like the man behind him was on the verge of breaking into laughter.

Donut didn't say anything, and he resisted the very, very strong urge to scream and run away.

"You're the new jailbird, aren't you? Donut? Foolish name. Fits your nature, does it?" The man laughed quietly, and it sent shivers down Donut's spine.

"Who're you?" Donut asked, unable to stop his voice from shaking. His eyes darted around looking for guards, but he realised that, from the view of the guards, they wouldn't be able to see whatever pointy object the man was jabbing into his back.

"My name? You can call me O'Malley, my effeminate friend." Donut could hear the malicious grin in his voice. "You don't look like a hardened criminal, do you? A little wuss who got caught up in the wrong crowd, hm? I saw you come in. I heard you crying that night. Which was wonderful, I never feel so happy than when someone else is terrified." Donut heard him take a deep breath, like he was savouring the moment. "And I can feel the terror rolling off you right now. It's quite stimulating. You were right to be afraid... Pretty little thing like you... if I didn't need you for another purpose right now, I'd break you in myself. Don't move!" O'Malley suddenly snapped, as Donut had attempted to jerk away from him. "Stop that. One would think you wanted this screwdriver jammed into your back. But enough of that... I need your help."

"I'm not snitching!" Donut whined.

"While I'm sure you are on the side, that's not what I wanted. Although it does involve your snitching friend, Church. Me and some other... ah... unhappy friends are quite annoyed with him. But, as I'm sure you know, it is very difficult to lay a hand on him. Or a knife in his stomach, for that matter." O'Malley snickered. "If I tried jabbing a screwdriver in his back, I'd get my neck twisted almost instantly. It's quite the little annoyance. That is where you come in."

"I'm not sticking anyone with a screwdriver, either," Donut muttered.

"Oh, no, that isn't it. I just want that big, blond monkey away from him. Just for a few minutes. That would be enough. Just distract the fool. Take him to play with the pigeons. It's a simple task."

"And... what happens to Church?"

"We're just going to stab him a little... Rest assured, we don't plan on killing him. No... that'd be too quick. Although never know, sometimes we get a little, ah... carried away..."

"No. No, no, no. No. No," Donut said quickly, before he lost his nerve. "No. I'm not doing it."

"You are hardly in a position to argue, my little pastry. After all... you have a screwdriver sticking into your back. A sharpened one. A little rusty, perhaps, but it will hurt." O'Malley pressed the screwdriver into Donut's back, digging through the jacket and scraping the skin. "Just... one... simple... thing." With each soft word, O'Malley pushed the screwdriver a little deeper into Donut's back. Donut couldn't help but whimper with pain every time it happened. "Playing with the pigeons? Or getting stabbed with a rusty screwdriver? Honestly, isn't the best solution obvious? Whatever you choose, someone is getting stabbed. Either Church... or you."

Donut felt him shift forward, close enough so that he could actually feel O'Malley's warm breath on his neck. "I'm not really fussy, as long as someone is bleeding and screaming. I'm tempted to forsake business for pleasure and have some fun playing around with you, actually..."

O'Malley put just a tiny bit more pressure on the screwdriver. What little nerve Donut had left broke.

"Okay, okay, please don't hurt me, stop jabbing me with that thing," Donut pleaded. "I'll do it, just stop that."

"Perhaps you're not as foolish as you look." O'Malley lessened the pressure he was putting on the screwdriver, though he didn't remove it completely. "Listen carefully, because if you fail I'm going to do everything that I have planned for Church to you. Tomorrow, when we are sent from lunch to the yard, someone will stop Church and Tucker to talk to them before they get outside. When this happens, convince Caboose to go and play with the pigeons with you. Make sure not to fail by alerting Church or Tucker. Keep Caboose distracted for a few minutes. That will be enough. Don't fail, and don't tell anyone. Anyone. For as much your safety as mine." O'Malley removed the screwdriver from his back. "Until tomorrow, little pastry."

Donut didn't hear him move off, but when he looked behind him, O'Malley had vanished. Or at least, Donut couldn't tell which one of the inmates hanging around he was. Donut climbed to his feet, and shifted over to sit down next to the wall, so no-one could sneak up on him again. He pulled his legs up and rested his chin on his knees, trying to stop shaking.

Church didn't seem so scary anymore. At least not when compared to the psychopath who had been jabbing a rusty screwdriver into his back. Why hadn't Simmons warned about him? Sure, Church was probably threatening to more people and had more on his side... but at least he wasn't sticking fucking screwdrivers into people's backs, at least not as far as Donut knew.

"Grif, when a guard approaches you about why you're smoking in a secluded corner, it is not a smart idea to blow smoke in their fucking face. Seriously. You pretty much deserved that punch in the stomach."

"I can't breathe."

"Once again. You deserve it. Dumbass."

Donut looked up to see Simmons, with Grif hobbling a little behind him, holding his stomach.

"Hey, Donut, you actually gonna move? Aren't you tired of sitting down? The yard is alright, you know, the guards keep a watch, don't have to worry."

_Not worry? I just had a freaking screwdriver at my back!_

"Yeah. Alright." Donut climbed to his feet, and winced. His back stung. "Where are we going?"

"Just wander around, I guess."

"I hate walking around. Can't we just sit?" Grif complained, still holding his stomach.

"Just because you're a lazy fuck..."

"Just because you're a... not-lazy-enough... kissass..."

"Wonderful comeback."

"You know, I heard that when two guys argue, psychologically they're arguing about penis size," Donut said, before clapping a hand over his mouth. _Shut up, Donut._ Grif and Simmons just stared at him with near-identical 'the hell?' expressions. "Uh... I mean... hey, let's go this way," Donut babbled quickly, turning and pointing at some random direction. "Never been that way before, new experiences and all that..." Donut was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder, as Grif turned Donut around a bit more.

"You're bleeding, you know that?"

"Huh?" Donut tried to twist to see his back where O'Malley had jabbed him, but pain shot through him at the same time. "Ow!"

"Hey, don't go twisting around, you'll tear at it. Doesn't look deep, but... how'd you do that, anyway?" Grif muttered. Donut considered telling them for a moment, but...

_Don't tell anyone. Anyone. For as much your safety as mine._

"...I fell?"

Grif and Simmons exchanged looks. Looks that clearly said 'Donut is fucking trying to bullshit us'. The falling excuse was, admittedly, not one of Donut's more creative moments.

But they didn't ask again. They just dragged him to the infirmary to stop him from staining his orange jumpsuit any redder.


	6. Chapter 6: Conflicting Fears

**Chapter Six: Conflicting Fears**

Donut spent the night lying on his front. The screwdriver puncture had been small, and it hadn't gone that deep. But it stung like hell and the blood had partially ruined his jacket. It felt ominous, like the blood had painted a target on his back.

Maybe it had. O'Malley had given him a clear warning. He'd be coming back if Donut didn't do what he said.

Donut had stuck with his 'I fell' excuse, even though he knew the prison doctor had seen through it instantly. As had Grif and Simmons. They hadn't tried to get him to tell them the truth, but they kept giving him the 'bullshit' looks.

Trying to sleep with his face in the mostly flat pillow, Donut had thought about the next day. Distracting Caboose really didn't seem like a difficult task. He wasn't worried about the task itself. He was more worried about what was going to happen afterwards, regardless of what he did.

On one hand, he could refuse to do it. But he didn't want to be stabbed for real, especially since just a little bit of prodding had hurt enough. And if O'Malley got carried away, then Donut might end up dead. He had the feeling it would be a very slow, painful death. Ignoring O'Malley wasn't much of a choice at all.

On the other hand, if he did go through with it... then the same thing would happen to Church. While Donut didn't particularly like the guy, being indirectly responsible for getting him mauled by crazy, screwdriver wielding inmates was not something Donut wanted on his conscience. Even leaving out the guilt issue, what would happen to Donut afterwards? Church would be pissed off if he lived through it. And he had ears in the walls. Plus, there was Phil and Jones to consider... proof that when Church was angry people tended to die. If Donut went through with the plan, would he be the next one to have his head popped like a grape? Or swinging from a makeshift noose in his cell?

It was a losing situation either way and basically boiled down to who Donut was most terrified of. At the moment, that was O'Malley. Church might kill him. O'Malley definitely would.

And so the next day after lunch, when Church, Tucker and Caboose finished eating and started to wander off, Donut followed them at a safe distance. He followed and waited for O'Malley's friend to stop the trio, so he could do his part. As much as he didn't want to.

* * *

"Fucking O'Malley's up to something," Church muttered, using one hand to pass back his food tray. He was holding a piece of paper in his other hand. A note from Tex. The details were vague, but whenever someone got poked with a screwdriver, it usually meant that O'Malley was involved somehow. Tucker tugged the piece of paper from his hands and quickly read over it himself.

"You reckon he was trying to threaten the new kid into doing something?" Tucker asked, once he'd finished. "I bet he was. It wouldn't have been for fun or he would have just stuck him. More so. In a lethal kind of way."

Caboose squinted at the paper over Tucker's shoulder, despite the fact that he couldn't read. "Does this mean O'Malley is hurting Mister Poppinfresh?" he asked nervously.

"Don't worry about it." Church took the piece of paper back, fiddling around with it in his hands. "It was a tiny injury. Doc just recognised it as O'Malley's work. A small thing like that won't kill him. Besides." Church grinned. "It's good encouragement. Maybe he'll be more motivated to agree with me next time."

"So... it's a win, then?"

"I guess. Who knows." Church crumpled the piece of paper in his hand before looking around for somewhere he could get rid of it. "Better keep an eye on the new kid, though. I don't trust O'Malley not to go all stabby on him, and... don't really know what to think of Donut. Too early to say. What do you think?"

Tucker shrugged before grinning. "Dunno. But if you squint and lean to the left, he looks like a chick. Good enough reason to keep him around."

"Seriously, do you ever think about anything else?"

"Yeah. If I didn't, your 'blackmailing' schemes would be just a pile of failing bullshit. Who else you gonna rely on? Caboose? Don't patronise me, man."

Church brandished his hands angrily. "Whatever, man. Now, you gonna help me bribe Wyoming with cigarettes or aren't you?"

"Sure. He's behind you, by the way." Tucker waved over Church's shoulder. "Sup, Wyoming?"

"Gah!" Church snapped, turning around to face Wyoming. "Goddammit, don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Surprised, Leonard? Considering your reputation, I didn't think anything would be able to sneak by you," Wyoming said, chuckling. "Now, what was that about bribing me with cigarettes, my... friend isn't the right word, is it? Acquaintances? Friendly enemies?"

"I thought bribing was for policemen and people running carnival stalls," Caboose said quietly. Tucker shook his head.

"Caboose. Shut up, alright? Go stare at the wall for a while, okay?"

"What was that, Tucker? I could not hear you because you are stupid."

"Go stare at the fucking wall," Church snapped.

"Okay."

Caboose focused on the wall as the discussion went on. He didn't mind, because Church always talked about things that he didn't quite understand, and the few bits he understood sounded mean. Ignoring it made his head hurt less, and he could pretend that Church was doing good things. Caboose was good at pretending.

"Hey... Caboose?"

Caboose looked around, confused and wondering why he couldn't see whoever had spoken, before remembering that he had to look downwards to see most of the people in the prison, because they were so tiny. Especially ones like Donut, who was standing in front of him.

"Hello, Admiral Buttercrust. Are you okay?" Caboose asked.

"Okay? Sure... why wouldn't I be?" Donut muttered, looking uncomfortable for a moment.

"Because O'Malley was being mean to you?"

"Oh... that. It's alright. Anyway, that isn't important." Donut grinned up at him. Caboose hadn't seen him smile yet. He thought that it would be a warm, fuzzy smile, because Mister Pastry seemed like a nice guy. But the smile was weird and stretchy, like that time when Caboose had passed on his mama's advice about smiling, and Church had done the fake-scary smile and said 'There, I'm smiling, now fuck off.' But Donut was probably just worried about O'Malley. O'Malley was scary and stabby, and people went to the infirmary when he was around.

"Do you like pigeons, Caboose?"

Caboose's face brightened immediately. "Yes. I love pigeons. When I was younger, Mama used to take me to the park to see the pigeons..." Then he frowned. "I am not allowed to go near the pigeons anymore, though. Church says I'm not."

Donut tilted his head, still looking up at him. "I could take you out to play with them."

"Really?"

"Sure."

"But Church says I am not allowed."

"It'll just be a few minutes. What..." Donut's voice faltered briefly here. "... what Church doesn't know won't hurt him, right?"

Caboose looked down at Donut, then looked behind him at Church and Tucker, who had their backs turned. They were arguing with Wyoming pretty angrily, and Caboose heard cigarettes being mentioned at least twice. They won't paying attention to him, they never did when Church was doing his 'business'. Whatever that was.

Church would be mad at him if he tried playing with the pigeons again. Last time he had yelled at Caboose, and that had been very hurtful.

But Church had also said to keep an eye on Commander Cinnamon Bun. And to go stare at the wall. Caboose could do both those things in the courtyard. Even if he was playing with pigeons, he could stare at both Donut and the wall at the same time. And if he did an awesome job watching things, Church would be happy with him, and then maybe he would not yell as much, and they would be even better best friends. And he might not even yell at him about the pigeons again.

"Just a few minutes?" Caboose asked in a trying-to-be-quiet-and-unsuspicious voice, which would have gotten Church's attention immediately if he wasn't so involved in his argument with Wyoming.

"Yeah. Guarantee it. Just a few minutes."

* * *

Donut kept trying to smile at Caboose, even though his insides were shriveling up from guilt.

_Just a few minutes... not much damage can be done in a few minutes..._

Donut caught hold of Caboose's sleeve and started tugging him towards the courtyard before he changed his mind, Caboose babbling happily about pigeons behind him.

_I hope no-one gets killed through this._ Donut did not want another death on his conscience.


	7. Chapter 7: Scars And Pigeons

**Chapter Seven: Scars And Pigeons**

"Pigeons!" Upon nearing the pigeons, Caboose ran ahead of Donut, dragging him along as they neared the grey birds. "Oh, I didn't bring any bread..."

"Here." Donut handed over (with some regret) his bread roll from lunch that day. He was still a little hungry, but anything to keep Caboose amused and away from Church. The longer he could keep Caboose there, the less likely O'Malley would come after him again. Caboose took the bread roll, smiling widely.

"Thank you, Mister Poppinfresh! You are the second-nicest person in here. Aside from Church, of course," Caboose said happily, as he crumbled up some of the bread and tossed it at the pigeons. Donut ducked his head down, feeling both flattered and horribly guilty. Caboose probably wouldn't be saying that if he knew...

* * *

"Ten cigarettes, then."

"Hmph. Ten cigarettes is hardly an adequate price. Ten cigars would be more so. And it's much classier."

"Where the fuck am I gonna get cigars?"

"Maybe one is tied to the stick up your ass."

"Not helping, Tucker! Go stare at the wall with Caboose."

"Alright, but—wait, where'd he... oh shit, Church, move!"

* * *

Though, second nicest behind Church wasn't saying much. He just couldn't see Church winning over anyone with kindness. That just didn't seem like Church, even if Donut didn't know him that well. He opened his mouth to ask Caboose about it, but then reconsidered... If he found out that Church was actually a nice guy, then this deal with O'Malley would feel even more awful...

Better to just keep believing that Church was a horrible, blackmailing excuse for a human being. It was much easier that way.

The pigeons were crowding around now, fighting over the crumbs of bread. Caboose tossed more crumbs at them, still babbling excitedly like a five-year-old seeing pigeons for the first time.

"So..." Donut said slowly. "You, um... like pigeons, then?"

"Yes. They're all chirpy and flappy, and I would like to keep one for a pet and name it Margretta..."

"Why Margretta?"

* * *

"Ow, f-fuck..."

"Tucker? Shit, Tucker!"

"Ahaha... amazing. He actually blocked the screwdriver with his face. That's one step away from the old 'oh, he fell on the screwdriver' excuse. Classic."

"Goddammit, Tucker, are you alright?"

"D-does it... fucking look like..."

"O'Malley, you fu-"

"I thought you won't going to get involved with the actual stabbing, Wyoming?"

"Yes, but he was going to start shouting, most likely. And I'd rather not burst my eardrums, nor attract the attention of the guards. Hurry it up, old boy."

* * *

"That was Mama's name." Caboose knelt down among the pigeons, reaching out for one slowly, so that the pigeon wouldn't run away first. "I will catch a pigeon and name it after Mama so I will not forget."

"Forget what?"

Caboose frowned for a few moments, blinking. "Um. ...I do not remember. But Church knows! Church knows these things, because he is my super best friend, and they are best friend secrets. ...Right. Private Biscuit, can you stand where I can see you? Because I'm supposed to be looking at you, so that Church will not shout at me about the pigeons."

Donut shrugged before moving forward into the mass of pigeons. Why so many pigeons hung around the yard, he had no clue. A group of them fluttered off when Donut moved, but some of them remained. Caboose still had his hand stretched out, and one of the pigeons was getting very close.

"Pidge, pidge, pidge..."

"I don't think the guards would let you keep a pet pigeon," Donut said, watching.

"Mister York might. He is nicer than Mrs McCrabby or the Washingtub man. They are both very scary. Last time I tried to bring in a pigeon, Washingtub hit me with his clubstick. It was very painful."

* * *

"Found this note, old boy. I don't think you have much longer."

"Let me see that! ...Curses. That little blond fool. He got Doc all worried. And Doc told the guards... curse that flaky pastry."

"In that case, is it time to retreat, my friend?"

"...No, not yet. Three stab wounds and a slashed face isn't nearly enough to leave them on... stop squirming, I don't want to hit the wrong part of you, you'll die too quickly that way. And that's not enjoyable at all."

* * *

"Pidge, pidge, pidge..."

Donut looked back at the door to see one of the guards walking towards the door that led back to the inside of the prison. That was faster than he expected, they had only been out there a little more than three minutes, and the guards had only just entered the yard. Ir was too early for them to switch shifts. Did they know something?

While he was distracted, he heard a nasty, crunching sound and a yelp, and looked back at Caboose to see him withdrawing his hand from the pigeon, looking upset. He climbed to his feet and shuffled over to Donut.

"I do not want to play with the pigeons anymore," Caboose said quietly, tugging on Donut's orange sleeve. "Can we go back to Church, now?" Donut looked down at the pigeon which Caboose had been attempting to catch, which was now lying crumpled on the ground, then back at Caboose, then back at the pigeon. "I tried petting the pigeon... and then he fell over."

No wonder Caboose wasn't allowed near the pigeons anymore. Donut forced himself to look away from the dead pigeon. "Yeah. Let's go..." The guard had entered the prison.

_Crap. I actually did it._

When they walked inside, he could hear shouting.

"I told you not to let O'Malley out of your sight, I told you. And now look what fucking happened!"

That was Tex, shouting at the top of her lungs. Donut heard Caboose come to a halt behind him at the mention of O'Malley.

"He's a fucking slippery snake, I only took my eyes off him for a second!"

"Well, that 'second' just cost two prisoners a shitload lot of blood. Keep O'Malley in solitary as long as you can, and find out if there are others responsible for this."

"Tex, just because he's your ex, doesn't make him worth five cents more than any other fucking inmate..."

"Just go fucking check, South!"

"I'm going, I'm going! Jeez."

"Oh... oh no..." Donut heard Caboose whimper behind him. "No, no, no, no... Church..." Caboose shoved past Donut and ran off down the hallway out of sight, in the direction of Tex and South's voices. Donut sighed and slumped against the wall.

_It's been done... I can't change it... Stop feeling guilty, it's not like Church was that great a person..._

Not that great a person, just a prison inmate... Just a criminal. But he could use that reasoning for anyone in this prison. Including himself...

_What have I done?_


	8. Chapter 8: Hindsight Sucks

**Chapter Eight: Hindsight Sucks**

Dinner was quiet.

Grif and Simmons were there, same as always, but Church, Tucker and Caboose were all missing. Donut kept looking at the three empty seats, chewing his lip. His food was untouched. This did not go unnoticed by Simmons.

"You should eat, you know. You'll end up looking even weaker if you don't."

"Okay." Donut still didn't touch his food, though.

Simmons glanced between Donut and the three empty chairs. "Church and Tucker got shanked earlier. They're in the infirmary," he said. "Caboose tried to get in, and got thrown into solitary for literally kicking the door down."

Donut nodded, like this news wasn't either new to him or making him shrivel up with guilt a little more. He prodded his dinner with his fork half-heartedly, until he noticed both Grif and Simmons watching him. "What?"

"Er... nothing," Simmons muttered. "I mean, yeah... nothing."

"Did you have anything to do with Church and Tucker getting shanked?" Grif asked bluntly.

"Grif! Can't you be more... subtle?"

"No."

Simmons sighed and ran his fingers through his hair nervously. "It's just suspicious. You turn up with a wound that looks suspiciously like a screwdriver puncture. And then the next day, Church and Tucker get shanked. And you were hanging around with Caboose at the time. Caboose rarely leaves Church's side." Simmons stared down the table at him. "So? Is this just a coincidence?"

"Well, you never warned me about O'Malley!" Donut said angrily, before clapping a hand over his mouth. _Shit. I told._

"About... who?" Simmons raised an eyebrow, while Grif just looked mildly mystified.

"O'Malley? Crazy guy? The one waving the rusty screwdriver around? Possibly friends with an older British guy?"

"Wyoming, I know him. But... no, I can't recall this O'Malley. What does he look like?"

O'Malley looked... what did O'Malley look like? O'Malley had been standing behind him during their conversation the day before. He had absolutely no clue what O'Malley looked like, not a damn inkling.

"I don't know... he was standing behind me when..."

And then the whole thing just came tumbling out. Once Donut started speaking, he just couldn't stop. It was not in Donut's nature to keep quiet. Even just the one day of being quiet had stretched him to his limits. And maybe he wanted someone to tell him that he had no choice, so he would feel better about possibly sending Church and Tucker to their possible deaths.

There was a few seconds of silence when Donut finished. Grif was the first to speak, quickly getting rid of Donut's hope of reassurance.

"You idiot."

"I know!"

"Didn't you realise that O'Malley trying to stab Church would have been valuable information to Church? People tend to be interested once they find out someone is trying to kill them. You could have bargained for protection, you idiot."

"...Oh my god, I didn't think of that."

"Obviously," Simmons muttered. "You're going to have Church, Tucker and Caboose all out to get you once they get out of the infirmary and solitary."

Donut groaned and covered his face. "I'm gonna die! I'm not going to live to be twenty-one, and I haven't even seen Paris yet! And you're telling me there was a way around this?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Should we prepare a eulogy?" Grif asked flatly.

"Grif, shut up... stop acting like he's already dead," Simmons said. Then he added, "He has at least a week."

"Oh god... isn't there anything I can do?" Donut asked desperately, twisting his hands nervously.

"Pray and hide?" Grif suggested.

"If you found information for Church, maybe he'd let you live," Simmons said. "It'd have to be damn good information, though. And, well... if you're lucky, maybe they won't realise that you're partly to blame for them getting shanked. Caboose doesn't have the smarts to figure it out, and if he doesn't mention that you led him away, Church and Tucker probably won't realise you did anything. And, we're assuming that they both lived."

Donut made an awkward squeaky noise.

"They might have died, or they might die before they recover," Simmons continued, ignoring the squeak. "Who knows. It's a definite possibility. We only have one doctor. And I suspect 'Doc' isn't actually a doctor, sometimes... asked him where he studied medicine, and he immediately changed the subject. So, if you're lucky, Church and Tucker might not leave the infirmary except via body bag."

"And you don't care if that happens?"

"No," Grif and Simmons said simultaneously.

"But you usually stick with them, don't you?" Donut asked.

"Well, yeah. Because it's the best chance for survival. We stay on their good side."

"Something you obviously failed at."

"Yeah..." Donut tapped his fork against his tray absently. "So, either I find some super-cool information... they're dead... or I'm likely to die in a week. Provided they know that I helped O'Malley."

"Yeah."

"...Crap."

"At least there's still hope?" Simmons shrugged. "How would they know anyway?"

"Bet they'll know. Church has ears in the walls, remember?" Grif said.

"Yeah, but his ears don't work well when he's unconscious or dead," Simmons argued.

"I'll bet a week of fruit on it. He'll know."

"Deal. You can't tell them, though, that's cheating."

"What do you take me for?"

"Guys, do you have to cast bets on whether I'm likely to die or not?" Donut mumbled.

"Why not? If you're gonna die, I might as well get some more pruno ingredients out of it."

Donut pushed away his food. He definitely wasn't going to end up eating today.

* * *

Tucker knew.

As soon as Tucker reappeared the next day, Donut knew that Tucker had figured it out. Because Tucker was staring far too intently at him. Donut was staring back, trying to keep his face neutral, to stop his stomach churning from equal amounts of guilt and fear. He told himself that he was staring back just to prove he wasn't intimidated, even though he totally was.

Really... he just couldn't tear his eyes away from the stitches. The long line of stitches that ran from above the bridge of Tucker's nose down the right side of his face. Donut held back a shudder. An inch or two either way, and it would have gouged an eye out.

Donut considered trying to talk to him a couple of times, just to defuse the silence. But what was he supposed to say?

Grif, upon sitting down and glancing at both Tucker and Donut, turned to Simmons and said, "Told ya. You owe me seven pieces of fruit."

"You bet on Church, not Tucker. I'm keeping my damn fruit."

"Cheating bastard!"

Donut finally managed to look down at his food, although it was a huge effort to stop staring.

_This silence is so awkward... But maybe it's a good thing Tucker isn't talking. He can't convince me to kill myself if he isn't speaking. All he's doing is glaring at me. Which is creepy, sure... is he still staring? Yes, he is. _

_God, that's getting on my nerves. Maybe it's a secret form of torture? The quiet ones are always crazy. Except Tucker isn't usually quiet, so he's just really, really mad. I would be, if my face had been slashed open like that. _

_Maybe I should try apologising. 'Hey, I'm sorry I nearly got you and Church killed. But we're cool, right?' No, that wouldn't work._

_...Fuck. I'm screwed._


	9. Chapter 9: Legs For A Face

**Chapter Nine: Legs For A Face**

_That bitch. That little bitch._

Tucker couldn't remember feeling so angry at someone since... since... hell, he couldn't remember. He was mad at O'Malley, obviously... but to tell the truth, he had no face to place on O'Malley. He'd been too blinded during that attack to see much, and all he'd ever heard of O'Malley was from other people, generally Church or Caboose. O'Malley mucked around with shit, but he always did it from the shadows until it was too late for the victim to move.

He had a face for Donut, however. He knew it had been Donut. Who else could O'Malley be referring to when he said 'blond, flaky pastry?' And Donut had gone past them when they were arguing with Wyoming. And he hadn't seen Caboose after that, either. Two and two makes four, and all that shit.

He just needed Caboose out of solitary to get back at him. Tucker could probably hurt Donut badly enough himself, but he'd lose any chance at getting parole if he got caught doing so. As opposed to Caboose, who had blown that chance out of the water a long time ago.

"Oh my god. What happened to your face?"

_Speak of the devil._

"Hello to you, too," Tucker grumbled, hand instinctively reaching up to cover the mess of stitching across his face. Not that he was stupid enough to touch the thing, it hurt like a bitch. Dammit... even once it healed, the stupid thing would pretty much put an end to his cons. It was much easier to track someone down when they had such a fucking obvious scar that people could easily remember and mention to the police. Disguises wouldn't work anymore, not in any way that would make him look normal instead of shifty. Pulling up a hoodie or wearing a mask didn't make you look like a legitimate businessman. It made you look like a gang member or a bank robber. It was a lot harder to track someone down when the most distinctive feature most people could name was 'black guy.' Which had the bonus of making the accuser sound a little bit racist.

Ruined, fucking ruined. Because of O'Malley, a guy he couldn't even get revenge on because he had no idea what the guy looked like (and he couldn't get Caboose to go hurt O'Malley, because Caboose was just too scared of him) and Donut.

"What happened to Church?" Caboose asked, sitting down on the concrete next to Tucker. "He... he's okay, isn't he?"

That was the other thing that Tucker was furious about. Church. Tucker had only managed to block one blow. One fucking blow. He sacrificed his face to block one fucking blow. Church had been hit with another five.

_Great. Lost my face for nothing. That bastard still better be grateful._

"I... I don't have a clue," Tucker sighed. "Last I saw... he kept waking up for a few minutes, and then kept passing out again after swearing at the ceiling for a bit. Didn't seem to know where he was. And that was four days ago. Anything could have happened since. Like they'd tell us if he kicked it." Tucker shook his head. "And kicking down the infirmary door? Fucking dumb idea, Caboose."

Tucker would have stood some chance at convincing Doc to let him into the infirmary to check on him, but since Caboose had kicked the door in there had been guards stationed out there to replace the missing door. Sneaking in was impossible, now.

"...Yes. It was a dumb idea. And you are calling me stupid. I have never heard that before. That is a completely original insult," Caboose muttered.

Tucker blinked. "Okay, was that sarcasm? Because I was convinced you didn't have the brain power for that."

"I miss Church."

"Yeah, well, trying to be a sarcastic bitch like him won't bring him back. Maybe he'll wake up sooner to shout at you. How could you let Donut trick you? This is your fault, too!"

"Wait, wait, wait. Captain Twinkie tricked me?"

"Oh my god..." Tucker groaned. "Yes! He did! He led you away to go kill pigeons-"

"I didn't kill that pigeon! It fell over!"

"-so that you wouldn't be around to stop O'Malley. It's your job to block screwdrivers with your face, not mine!"

Caboose scrunched up his face, thinking. "So... you are saying... that Captain Twinkie led me off on purpose... so O'Malley could be mean and hurty."

"Yes, that's what I'm saying!"

"I do not believe you."

"Fuck. Why not?"

"Because you are stupid. And a liar. And I do not like you. And I like Captain Twinkie because he is my second-best friend and he does not get angry and swear at me, and that makes me all warm and fuzzy like a blanket. And friends believe friends. They do not believe stupid Tucker."

Tucker groaned and resisted the urge to hit his head against the wall. That wouldn't do any good.

"Dammit, you have to help me get back at Donut! An eye for an eye, and shit. Come on, Church will back me up on this. Once he wakes up, anyway. You'd believe Church, wouldn't you?" Although, Tucker wasn't sure if Church had heard O'Malley essentially name Donut as his accomplice. "Okay, look. You should help me, alright?"

Caboose crossed his arms and turned away. "No."

"Damn, you're so difficult..." Tucker pondered for a moment. "Okay. The whole warm and fuzzy thing. That makes you feel good, right?"

"Yes. Like a blanket. Or a hug from Mama."

"Now. If Church got the warm, fuzzy feeling, that'd make him feel better, right? And he'd wake up and feel better much sooner," Tucker explained. "So, the best way to make Church wake up would be to get Donut near him."

Caboose nodded, with the same 'thinking-harder-than-his-brain-usually-allows' expression.

"But, see, none of the inmates are allowed in the infirmary, except for the ones working there and the ones injured. And Donut doesn't work there. He works in the laundry with us. So, the only way to get Donut in there, with Church... is basically to hurt him badly enough to land him in the infirmary."

Caboose made a small, whining noise and stepped away from Tucker. "No... not Captain Twinkie. No, no, no. You... are trying to trick me." Caboose pointed at him. "You sound like O'Malley."

_Damn it, of all the times for him to actually see through me..._

"First off... don't compare me to O'Malley. And this isn't like that whole Phil thing. I didn't tell you to kill Donut, I just told you to hurt him a bit. You know... just break his legs. Nothing to do with the head, that always ends up horribly with you..."

"I do not hurt people. I do not, I do not!"

"Fine," Tucker sighed, perhaps a bit too melodramatically. "I guess you don't want Church to get better, do you? It's partly your fault he's hurt, you know." Tucker knew he'd be feeling guilty later, especially since Caboose looked on the verge of crying. And making Caboose cry always made Tucker feel like he'd just punted a puppy. But Tucker was too angry at the moment to really care. "But, hey. No problem. Just let Church keep hurting. He might even die, but hey... obviously, that's fine to you. Obviously, you're just a shit best friend."

"Okay! Okay, just... stop saying things..."

"So, you'll do it?" Tucker asked, grinning.

"Only to help Church. If it is the only way to help Church."

"Cool. But wait until Donut is on his own. I think I can get that done by tomorrow... just have to get Tex convinced..." Tucker trailed off, gazing across the yard. He spotted Donut fairly quickly. Trailing behind Grif and Simmons. Probably scared of being left by himself again. Smart bastard. He'd need Tex's help to get Donut on his own.

But he'd manage it. No-one messes with him. And no-one hurts Church and gets away with it, either. Not as long as Tucker has anything to do with it.


	10. Chapter 10: Slam

**Chapter Ten: Slam**

Donut finished folding what was probably the millionth orange jumpsuit and rubbed his eyes. So much orange made the eyes water. He kept his back to the wall whenever possible, though more out of habit than anything. No-one would try and attack him in the laundry room, there were too many guards around. Anyone who tried attacking him would be hauled off quickly.

Although, Donut noted warily, Tucker could probably get him in the face with the hot part of the iron he was holding. But Tucker didn't look like he was planning on it. He had been disturbingly cheerful for the last day, though. Yesterday, at dinner, he had taken a break from his continuous angry glaring at Donut, instead just grinning while he ate.

Either he'd decided to spontaneously forgive Donut, which seemed unlikely, or he had something planned. Which seemed much more likely, seeing as the sudden cheerfulness had occurred when Caboose had been released from solitary.

Donut was sure that Caboose now knew the truth as well. Although, Caboose hadn't seemed angry. Just... upset. Donut had seen him at breakfast, but Caboose had just stared downwards at his plate and refused to look at Donut. And now, in the laundry room, he was just kind of staring off into space. York occasionally prodded him in the back to keep him working, although it only seemed to work for a couple of minutes at a time.

Eventually, York rapped his nightstick against the doorway to catch everyone's attention and said it was the end of their laundry shift and the beginning of lunch. Always a good time of the day. Donut placed the last jumpsuit on the stack and looked around for Simmons. He had been sticking with him and Grif for the past few days, since Tucker had been released, and Tucker's sudden cheerful mood made him feel like it would be a bad idea to be left alone, now more than ever. He suspected Simmons was getting a little tired of it, and Grif had outright stated that Donut was being clingy, but better clingy than horribly, horribly injured.

While Donut glanced around, he noted that Tucker was still by himself. Caboose seemed to have left as soon as the whistle went off. Seeing as Caboose was Church's and, by extension, Tucker's protection, that surprised Donut a little. Donut shook his head, and upon spotting Simmons near the door, he trotted over to him.

"You realise that if you're attacked in front of us, we're not actually going to do anything, right?" Simmons told him. "We're not stupid, we're not going to get in the way."

"Yeah... I know that. But they'd be less likely to attack when I'm with you, right?"

"I guess. But you'll be on your own, eventually." Simmons raised his voice. "Grif, hurry up! How can you be so slow to finish?"

"Shut up, Simmons," Grif shouted back, from where he was still stuck ironing jumpsuits.

"Can I ask you something?" Donut asked.

"What about?"

"You and Grif."

Simmons raised an eyebrow. "What about us?"

"Why do you always follow each other around? I mean, you don't do much but argue like an old married couple."

"Why does everyone compare us to a married couple?" Simmons muttered under his breath.

"I was just wondering why."

Simmons shrugged. "It's just what we do, I guess. We've always done that."

"Always? Does that mean you guys knew each other before? Did you get thrown in here together? What'd you do?" Donut asked curiously. "Was it like in the movies where the two people go on the run together, and it's kind of like an elopement but with policemen instead of angry family members?"

"Damn. I knew saying we knew each other before was going to lead to weird questions. And the answers are yes, yes, murder and... what the hell kind of movies were you watching?"

Donut opened his mouth to explain the plots of those kind of movies, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to see Tex standing behind him.

"We didn't have enough inmates today to carry all the jumpsuits down to the storeroom. Take the stack you ironed down there," she said shortly, after staring him down for a moment.

"Oh... yes, ma'am."

Tex didn't say another word, she just left towards the cafeteria, which was the direction all the inmates and most of the guards were heading in. Simmons scratched his head.

"Weird. Why didn't she ask earlier, before the whistle went off?" he muttered. "Maybe delaying your lunch is some kind of punishment for the Church thing."

Donut shrugged. A guard wouldn't do anything real horrible, would they? (There were always those really corrupt guards in the movies, though.) Still, Donut had to remind himself, life isn't like a movie. Although he tended to forget every few minutes. He did spend a lot of time wishing the jail was a bad dream, and that he would wake up at home, with his roommate alive and not trying to murder him.

* * *

A few minutes later, Donut was trying to push open the door to the storeroom with his foot (a difficult task) and attempting to see over the stack of jumpsuits he was carrying (also a difficult task). After a couple of minutes of failing, Donut finally managed to push open the door.

Trying to see over the jumpsuits, he noticed a lot of orange around, along with some white clothes, things like undershirts and socks. But that was all he had a chance to see before someone grabbed him from behind and clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Mmmph! Mmmgh!" Donut tried pulling the hand off his mouth, but it was as futile an effort as getting chocolate stains out of a white shirt.

"Is anyone waiting outside?"

Oh no. Caboose. I'm alone with Caboose. Oh god, I'm going to die!

"Mmh!"

"Right. You can not talk with a hand over your mouth. I will stop that if you promise not to yell."

Donut considered for a moment before nodding. Caboose removed his hand and turned Donut around, although he kept a hold on his wrist so Donut couldn't run for it.

"I am sorry for that," Caboose said quietly. "But I did not want you to yell and get me into trouble. I do not want to go back into the small room."

"Don't hurt me!" Donut yelped.

"That is very close to yelling. If you do that again, I will have to put a sock in your mouth to keep you quiet. I do not want to do that. Socks taste bad." Caboose tilted his head. "Tucker says that you are a 'backstabbing bitch'. That you helped O'Malley hurt Church. Is that true?"

Donut did what any sane person would do in his situation. He lied.

"No. No, I didn't!"

Caboose nodded. "I did not think that you would. O'Malley is a mean person and you are a nice person. Nice people do not work with mean people. And you would not lie to me because we are friends. Right?"

"Yes. Friends. Best friends," Donut agreed nervously. "Great. Can you let me go, now?"

"No. I cannot do that."

"Why? Come on, Caboose. I didn't do anything, that means you can let me go."

"We are friends, but Church is my best friend. And if I do not hurt you, then Church might never get better again. And I have to help him, even if it means I have to do really bad things." Caboose chewed on his finger thoughtfully, staring down at Donut's legs. "Do I really have to break both... Uhm... do you know which part of the leg would hurt the least if it was broken?"

"Huh? No! No, no, don't! Please don't break my legs! Please, Caboose!" Donut pleaded.

"You are yelling again. Please stop it."

"Come on, let me go! How will breaking my legs help Church? It won't!"

"But... you're like a warm, fuzzy blanket. And blankets always help people get better," Caboose mumbled.

"Come on, please! Anything but breaking my legs, anything but that! Please, pl—mmf!" Donut was cut off by Caboose cramming a pair of the rolled up socks lying around into his mouth.

"I am sorry, but I did warn you, and it is difficult to think with you yelling. At least the socks are clean?"

Donut shook his head, and tried spitting the sock of out his mouth, but to no avail.

"And now you cannot help me figure out which part of the leg would hurt the least," Caboose sighed, tugging Donut towards the door, and shoving Donut onto the floor, his legs sticking out the door. After pinning down his wrists using his foot, Caboose shifted Donut a little so only one leg was sticking out of the door. He grasped the doorknob with one hand, and covered his own eyes with the other.

"Sorry!" And then Caboose slammed the door as hard as he could on Donut's leg.

Donut's scream of pain was muffled by the socks stuck in his mouth. Caboose peeked through his fingers, before covering them again and slamming the door on his leg once more. Twice more. Three times more. The fourth time around, there was an audible crack, but that was lost on Donut. Only the sharp pain registered, like his leg had been cleaved in two. Caboose heard the crack, and peeked through his fingers again. He had gone even paler than he normally was. He looked like he was going to be sick.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please do not hate me! I do not want you to hate me!" Caboose covered his eyes again. "No, no, no... don't think..." Caboose lowered his hands, reached down and pulled Donut out into the corridor. "I was supposed to break both your legs. But one is already too much."

As soon as Donut's hands were free, they immediately shot towards his leg. Tears were trickling down his face and being soaked up by the sock working as a gag, muffling any sounds of pain or cries for help.

Caboose shut the door and crouched down in front of Donut. He looked worried, although there was a weird look in his eyes that Donut couldn't quite place.

"I am going to leave you here. And Tex will probably find you very soon." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "I do not want to go back into the small room. But if you want to say I did it... you can. I will not get angry at you about it." Caboose tugged the pair of socks out of Donut's mouth and tossed them aside. Donut didn't scream. He would have earlier, but the pain was too strong and sharp for him to even think about screaming. Instead, he just cried, holding onto his leg.

"How... could you..." Donut choked out between the sobs. Caboose looked downwards, then stood up.

"Because I had to... to fix Church. But if you do not want to be friends anymore, that's okay. I... would not want to be friends with myself either."

And then Caboose turned around and hurried away down the corridor, leaving Donut lying on the floor, clutching his broken leg.


	11. Chapter 11: Duck Curtains

**Chapter Eleven: Duck Curtains**

Donut didn't know how those people in the movies who broke their legs and managed to hobble a mile to the hospital did it. Donut was too busy going 'oh dear God, my fucking leg.' Which was the main thought that had been going through his mind until Tex found him and carried him to the infirmary none too gently.

God, it hurt. It hurt more than anything he'd ever felt. Even that time when he got hit by a car that was going at full speed (although he'd had the incredible luck to survive that with only minor injuries.) Doc claimed that his leg hurting was actually a good sign and that it would be worse if his leg had gone numb. Donut wasn't reassured.

Now, lying on the cot in the infirmary, listening to Doc panic about how he didn't know how to set a broken leg and about how the hospital might find out how low they always were on medical supplies, Donut was trying to look anywhere but his broken leg. Not that it was real bloody or anything. Just kind of yellow, purple and blotchy where Caboose had slammed the door on it. But it was pointing in slightly the wrong direction and just looking at it made Donut feel nauseous.

Instead, Donut looked around the room for something – anything – to keep his mind off the pain. Unlike the rest of the prison, the infirmary was painted light green. It was a nice, soothing colour. That was probably the intention. Green paint, with bits of white here and there. The only other colour in the room was a set of dark blue curtains patterned with yellow ducks. These curtains were hung up around one of the cots.

"Nice curtains," Donut said.

Doc, who had been examining his leg with an expression of confusion, like he didn't know what he was looking at, looked back up momentarily.

"Oh, thanks. I bought them from home. I think ducks make people feel a bit happier when they're bleeding all over the sheets," Doc said, distracted from his panic and examination. "Doesn't seem to be working on Church that well. Every time he wakes up it's nothing but shouting. He never says anything nice. Although he's getting better. He can speak more than swearwords now." Doc paused, then returned to examining Donut's leg. "Sorry, but can you not distract me?"

"Oh. Sorry..."

"It's okay, it's okay." Doc sighed. "Well... it's not an open fracture, I can tell that much. But it's definitely broken. Just wait here while I call the hospital. They'll give you an X-Ray and whatever treatment you need, then send you back here. I don't know how to set bones, or have any splinting supplies, so I can't do anything. Stay as still as possible, okay? Shout really loud if something happens."

"Okay."

As Doc went to the back of the infirmary to phone the hospital, Donut gazed at the blue, duck-covered curtains hiding Church. Well, now he knew Church wasn't dead. Although, he didn't feel so guilty anymore. Probably due to the broken leg. Donut figured that the broken leg definitely balanced out the guilt. Donut wondered if Church was awake at the moment.

"Hey. Hey, Church? You awake?" Donut whispered.

"Fuck off," came the sleepy reply.

"Are you alive?"

"The fuck do you think, Tucker?"

"I'm not Tucker. I'm Donut."

"...Oh. Yeah, you do sound too girly for Tucker."

Donut paused for a while, thinking of something to say. What did you say to a man who you nearly got killed?

"Uhm... so. How's it going?" Donut asked nervously. _Yes, that's original. Wonderful job, Donut. Wonderful job._

"Shit. Someone stole my shoes. I could get up and leave if it wasn't for that... Dammit, I bet this is Caboose's fault, somehow." Church's voice was a little slurred, but it was easy enough to understand him. Although, if he was concentrating more on his stolen shoes than on the stab wounds... that was just weird.

Donut shifted uncomfortably, and whined as pain shot through his leg again as he did so.

"Hell, I don't fucking need shoes. I'll move on my own. Don't ne—ow, fuck! Jesus, why'd that happen. Tucker, why are these fucking curtains in the way?"

"I'm Donut! Donut!"

"...Oh yeah."

"Donut, were you talking to Church? Best not to. He's already very confused," Doc said, walking back towards them.

"Who... who're you calling 'confused', Caboose? Like you can talk," Church grumbled.

"Yes, okay," Doc said patiently. He directed the next sentence at Donut. "Did he try to get up again?"

"I think so. Said something about not needing shoes."

"Oh dear. And I don't have anything to kill the pain... sorry, that sounds violent... alleviate the pain. Why are we always so lacking in supplies? First, no stitches... now, no painkillers..." Doc stuck his head inside the curtains. "Church, can you please stay still and stop trying to leave the bed? That's all I'm asking."

"Stop telling me what to do. I'm not taking orders from someone with an IQ lower than a goldfish."

Doc shrugged, and shut the curtains again.

"It's easier just to agree with him. He's still in sort of a half-coma-dream-thing, and every time you correct him on who you are he just forgets about it five seconds later. Mostly, he just thinks everyone else is either Tucker, Caboose, Tex or someone called Jimmy. Anyway... ambulance should be here, soon. Just have to wait here. You're fine with that?"

"It's not like... I can do anything but lie here, anyway," Donut muttered, through gritted teeth.

"Sarge will probably ask you questions about this later. So, what are you going to say when that happens?"

"What do you mean?"

"What are you going to tell him? What happened? How'd you break your leg? That's no normal accident. Sure, we sometimes get fractures from inmates simply falling over at the wrong places. But this is too suspicious, especially given that this is the second time you've been hurt since you came in. And you haven't even been here two weeks yet. I don't approve of lying, but... I know mostly everyone does when it comes to these sort of injuries." Doc sat down on a stool and waited for Donut's answer.

Donut recalled Caboose telling him that he was allowed to tell the truth. He could tell without repurcussions. Just a long stretch of solitary for Caboose. No gain, no loss. Just revenge. On the other hand... did Donut even want revenge on Caboose?

Part of him did. Because... fuck, it hurt. But he recalled the terrified expression on Caboose's face. Someone had put him up to it. Donut was willing to bet his other leg that it was Tucker. But Tucker hadn't made the same promise that Caboose had. His other leg really would be next to go if he told.

Donut twisted his hands together nervously, as he thought it over. "I can't think clearly," Donut said finally. "Can I wait until my leg doesn't hurt so much?"

"Take as long as you want. Or, at least as long as you want until Sarge gets impatient and demands an answer. He's pretty impatient, so that won't be long. So, you can't really take as long as you want." Doc nodded. "I'll be back once the ambulance arrives with a stretcher. No way is anyone carrying you through the whole prison on their back. Stay still, and if Church tries to get up again, then just tell him not to. He doesn't like listening to me when he's half-hallucinating."

* * *

"You little shit."

Tucker sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Grif, I haven't catcalled at your sister in ages. She hasn't even been here in the last month."

"You know what I'm talking about." Grif jammed a thumb in the direction of the walls. They could see the flashing of a red light. An ambulance. "Donut doesn't show up at lunch, neither does Caboose, and now there's an ambulance here? I'm not stupid."

"Aw, you're not going to get on my case about this too, are you?" Tucker complained. "I've already got Caboose guilt-tripping me, man. Do you know how tough that is? He doesn't even have to say anything because he has those eyes! I swear, I know a million ways to manipulate someone into feeling sorry for me, and Caboose can upstage it all with a look. A look! And besides, you getting on my case about this... a little hypocritical, isn't it? Coming from the guy who broke my finger once because I said just a few things about your sister?" Tucker wiggled the fingers on his right hand at Grif. "Not cool."

"Dude, first off... those few things? More like a week-long stream of constant innuendo. And it was a spur-the-moment kind of thing, not a pre-planned assault. Second, a broken finger is nothing. A broken leg? That's just cruel. Really cruel. Just because some other guy slashed your face in? Yeah, wah." Grif dropped his used cigarette and crushed the butt underneath his shoe. "Plus, Donut's so small and feminine... it's like mauling a sixteen-year-old girl."

Tucker pulled a face at Grif. "Great. Trying to find a sister substitute in prison? That's sad. Really sad. Besides, I didn't do anything. Caboose did the breaking."

"Yeah, I already asked him about it. Says you told him to, because it would help Church get better. Ohhh, Tucker..." Grif mockingly tutted. "Caboose is like an infant. You realise you just manipulated an infant into mauling a sixteen-year-old girl? Honestly, I'm not an angel either... but that's just not cool."

"Is there a point to all this, or are you just here to try and guilt-trip? Because, seriously. It's not working." Tucker stretched and grinned at Grif. "Sure, manipulating Caboose wasn't nice, and I feel a little mean about that. Just a little. But you can't make me feel sorry for what happened to Donut. Backstabbing bitch had it coming."

"Coming from the guy who is a backstabber's bitch."

Tucker snorted. "Now who's a hypocrite? Considering the noises I hear you and Simmons make."

Grif responded by kicking the crushed remains of his cigarette in Tucker's direction. "Whatever, man, I didn't come over here to debate on the subject of prison bitches. I just wanted to say that if you don't agree to hand over your fruit for the next month, then I'm going to tell Caboose you tricked him."

Tucker raised his hands. "Whoa. Isn't that a little harsh?"

"Telling the truth? Not at all. It's what people are supposed to do, you know. You should try it sometime, Tucker. You might like it."

"And why would Caboose believe you?"

"Why wouldn't he? He hates you." Grif gestured at Caboose, who was scratching patterns in the dirt not far away from them, looking blank. "Honestly, I don't think he cares that much whether you're telling the truth or not. Either way, you just made him lose one of his only friends. Give him an excuse and Caboose will strangle you. And probably enjoy it."

Tucker scowled. "Fuck."

"Yeah. So, a month's worth of fruit? Being throttled? You gonna choose one or what? At least I'm not making people hurt others, right?" Grif grinned at him, lighting another cigarette.

"Alright, alright. But I hate you so much right now."

"We always hate each other."

"That's true."

* * *

After a couple of minutes of silence, Donut heard Church pull the curtains back a little. Donut looked over to see dark blue eyes staring at him through a gap in the curtains, before they swung shut again.

"I was... just checking," Church mumbled.

"Checking?"

"Yeah. Just checking who was there... Caboose keeps stopping me from opening the curtains. And then he did that weird thing... where he actually speaks like a normal person? And uses weird medical mumbo-jumbo. Odd for a guy who can't even read."

Donut assumed Church was just talking about Doc again, and didn't bother replying.

"This place sucks, Tucker. I hate it. It's all... giant ducks and shit."

Donut wondered what kind of stuff Church was on. Or what was wrong with him for him to be seeing giant ducks. And for him to be continually confusing him for Tucker.

"And Caboose is all 'you're thirteen on the scale.' What fucking scale? See, he still talks gibberish. Just different gibberish. Anyway... I was talking about the giant ducks. But that's not all. Ghosts, too."

"Ghosts?" Donut meant to move closer so he could hear Church better, but he had momentarily forgotten about his leg, producing more sharp pain and whining.

"Yeah. Ghosts. Loads of people have died in here. And you can hear them. All 'it's your fault we're dead, bitch' and all that. Seriously freaky stuff."

"What ghosts? Like, do you know them?"

"Sure. I was in here when they dragged Phil up. Had, like, only half his head left intact. It was disgusting. You know that, I told you ages ago. They always bring the dead bodies up here." Church pulled a face. "Jeez. Tex was breathing down my neck for a month after that. 'Did you do that, Church? Did you? Because that violates our fucking no-killing-stuff agreement.' Now, how the fuck would I do that from up here? I wasn't even fucking conscious until about fifteen minutes before it happened. Caboose is just psychotic, is all."

Donut nodded for a few moments before part of that clicked. "...No-killing agreement?"

"Swore off that shit," Church grumbled. "Be so much easier if I didn't, but... well, yeah. Whatever. C'mon, Tucker, what's with the stupid questions?"

"Oh... um... ah... you know," Donut said lamely.

"Yeah. I do know. Because I know everything."

After another minute of silence, Church spoke up again.

"Tucker?"

"Yeah?"

"Not to sound like a sappy girl or anything... but thanks."

"Thanks for what?"

"Oh, come on. Seriously? You don't remember? I'm not explaining it all again... fuck it, you totally ruined my grand thank you. You know how rare those are? You know what? Fuck it. I'm going to sleep."

It seemed that Church was as good as his word, as the rest of the time until the stretcher arrived passed in complete silence.

* * *

"I hope Tucker doesn't throw out another revenge scheme over this," Simmons muttered, as Grif explained why he would now have enough fruit to make pruno and some leftover to actually eat. "Seriously, this is getting way too complicated."

"Yeah. What is it, now? Tucker getting revenge on Donut using because O'Malley tricked Donut into leading Caboose away and so Caboose wasn't around to stop Church and Tucker getting stabbed. And me blackmailing Tucker by threatening to tell Caboose that Tucker also lied to him to get him to hurt Donut in the first place? And this started... crap. Don't remember how. Fuck, I'm getting dizzy."

"And not including whatever Church might toss out when he gets out of the infirmary."

"Fuck. You should join in. Then it'll be all six of us. Plus O'Malley. Whoever he is."

"As much as diving headfirst into that mess sounds like a brilliant way to spend the next few months, I'll pass." Simmons shrugged. "So. Any chance of getting some of that pruno off you?"

"Thought you said it was a dumb idea."

"It is a fucking dumb idea. But, as long as you're making the stuff anyway... getting blind drunk might be fun."

"Yeah. Just like the old days," Grif said, grinning. "Alcohol and oreos. If I could only get hold of some oreos..."

"Just like the old days, huh?"

"All that's missing is that sofa that smells like old cookies."

"It smelt like that because you kept putting oreos under the cushions for safekeeping."

"Oh, yeah. Good times."


	12. Chapter 12: Pink Cast

**Chapter Twelve: Pink Cast**

"I think you'll be in here for... probably up to the next two months," Doc said, after Donut had been returned to the prison infirmary. "Lucky you didn't need surgery or anything. Nice cast, by the way. Very... pink."

"Lightish red," Donut corrected him.

"Did they run out of other colours?"

"No. I just like lightish red."

"Anyone you know planning on visiting the prison, tomorrow? Because I don't really want to let you out of that cot."

"Not that I know of. My parents live in another state, it's not exactly a fun time out for my friends and the guy I hung around most was my roomie, and... well..." Donut trailed off briefly. "That... didn't end too well." Doc nodded.

"Fair enough. Church, how about you? Not likely, is it?"

"No. Never fucking get visitors," Church grumbled from behind his curtains.

"Well, I'm going down to get some dinner. I'll bring you your food once I'm done, okay? Something happens while I'm gone... just yell really loudly."

"Can do."

"Whatever."

Once Doc had left, again, Church pulled back the curtains a little.

"You do get visitors, though," Church said suspiciously. "Why the lies, Tucker? I mean, I know that's what you do most of the time, but..."

"Oh, um... they decided not to show up?" Donut bluffed. He'd given up trying to correct Church on who he was, and had just resorted to making up excuses for why he kept saying things that Tucker wouldn't. It was still easier than correcting Church continuously. Church snorted.

"Right, whatever."

"Do visitors really never come to see you?"

"No. Who would? Only guys I knew on the outside were criminal douchebags. Well, besides Tex, anyway. She's just a bitch." Church let go of the curtains again, and they swung back into place. "Not like I had any friends or anything. Friends are for losers."

Donut laced his fingers together behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The cot in the infirmary was much more comfortable than the one in his cell, and it didn't smell like old puke. And, Donut reflected, he wasn't in danger of being attacked in here. There's always a bright side, even to having your leg broken.

* * *

"A pink cast? Could you get any gayer?"

Donut looked up from one of the books Doc kept in the infirmary (a book about yoga) to see Tucker standing above him, grinning.

"How'd you get in? There's guards at the door," Donut asked, staring suspiciously at Tucker, who sat down nearby. Tucker gestured at his face, which still had the long line of stitches running down it.

"I'm supposed to be here... gotta get these fucking stitches taken out or I'm gonna scare Junior tomorrow. And, ah, you're kidding. Caboose only broke one leg? I said both legs, dammit." Tucker sighed. "Caboose must really like you. He doesn't usually get so depressed over breaking people. Normally he gets over it in about two minutes, and he spends those two minutes more giddy than depressed. But it's been, like, four hours. And he nearly bit my head off when I tried to ask him what happened."

"Oh, I freaking knew it was you," Donut grumbled.

"Yeah, well... kinda obvious, isn't it?" Tucker drummed his fingers against the cast lightly, causing Donut to wince a bit. "You don't seem as angry as I thought you would be."

"I'm too tired to be angry. I'll be mad later," Donut sighed. Tucker grinned wider, rocking back and forth on his feet a little.

"So, you can't really do anything at the moment, can you?"

"Oh, no, I can still do stuff. Just now I was thinking, 'hey, let's go dancing!' Of course I can't do anything, you jerk."

"Well, that's what happens when you're a backstabbing bitch, you know? In the future, don't be a dumbass. Stick to the winning side." Tucker waved his hand at his own face again. "You indirectly got my face disfigured, I indirectly got your leg broken. I'd say that's pretty even. Even if I wanted both legs broken. At least your injury isn't permanent, you jackass."

"At least you're not immobile for two months!" Donut retorted. "It's not like I meant for you to get injured."

"Oh, right, right. You just meant to get Church killed, then. That's so much fucking better. Not." Tucker glanced behind him at the curtains. "Since those curtains are still up, I assume Church is still alive?"

"Last time Doc checked, yeah." Donut returned to his book, only to find that he had lost the page he was on. "But he's kinda mental."

"Wait, like... what kind of mental? Caboose-brand mental? O'Malley-brand mental?"

"Uhmmm..." Donut hummed to himself for a moment. "Not either of those, really. He's just... out of it."

"Let's see..." Tucker crossed the room and stuck his head in the curtains. "Hey, Chur-"

"Holy crap!"

What followed was a yelp of pain from Tucker, and he quickly pulled his head out, holding his nose.

"Why are people always hitting me in the fucking face?" Tucker yelled. "Come on, anywhere but the face. Man... good thing that book was just a paperback. If it'd been a hardcover he would have broken my nose... the fuck was up with that?"

"Would this be a good time to mention that he thinks I'm you? And that Doc is Caboose? He probably thought you were someone he doesn't like..."

"You're supposed to be dead!" Church roared from inside his curtains. "Go away, Joannes! Go haunt Tucker, it ain't my fault you kicked it!"

"Oh, nice. 'Yeah, go haunt Tucker.' Thanks, Church," Tucker muttered. "Appreciate it." Tucker picked up a felt tip pen that Doc had been using to write on charts, and seated himself near Donut's cast. "Where's Doc, anyway? He's supposed to be taking out my stitches."

"Doc? Called out of the room by Sarge. Hey, stop drawing all over my cast!" Donut tried to wave Tucker away, but he couldn't actually reach far enough.

"Too late. Besides, gotta have something to look at for the next couple of months. Right?" Tucker continued doodling on Donut's cast. "I hope this will teach you how bad being a backstabbing bitch is for your health. Or social life. Both are kind of related in here. Do you even have any friends, yet?"

Donut chose not to respond to that, instead crossing his arms and pouting at the ceiling. "Are you sure you're here to get rid of those stitches? You're not here to be a jerk?"

"Eh. A bit from both, really." Tucker glanced at the curtains again. "I gotta talk to someone, and I was hoping to find Church sane and not trying to smack me in the face with a book about Tai Chi. It's not like talking to a flamer like you is my idea of a fun time."

"Huh? Excuse me? You're the one who hits on anything that moves."

"Yeah, but that doesn't make me gay. I'm just being practical. And besides, I called 'no homo.' So, in your face."

"Yeah, that's why you're compensating by drawing a naked lady on my cast. I don't want to look at that for two months! That's gross."

Tucker placed the lid back on the pen and tossed it back on the table he had found it on. "I don't need to compensate. Besides, I still don't like you. Drawing something you don't want to look at is just my way of showing that to you."

"Yeah, the fact that you got Caboose to break my leg totally doesn't illustrate that enough."

"That's why two legs were required, man."

"Princess Peach! What in sam hell happened?"

Sarge stomped into the infirmary, Doc trailing behind him looking somewhat nervous. Tucker quickly climbed off his seat and stood further away from Sarge, who made his way straight to Donut.

"Was it one of those dirty Blues? I bet it was! Those no-good rotten dirtbags!"

"Blues? Oh, right."

"I bet Flowers put them up to it. That conniving evildoer! He shouldn't be trusted with leading the guard, he's planning a revolt, I'm sure of it!"

_Why was this man allowed to run the prison?_

"I'd fire him straight up if I could find proof... But I know he is! He's a traitor! Him and his girly locks!" Sarge growled angrily.

"Um, Sarge... can you stop shouting? Yelling isn't good for the patients..." Doc muttered.

"Goddamn it." Sarge turned back to Donut. "Well, Cupcake? Who broke your leg, and you better say it was one of those goddamn Blues! Or Grif. Don't mind punishing Grif, he's a sad excuse for a Red! Always lazing around and making excuses not to work... lazy bastard."

Donut just shook his head.

"Um... it wasn't Grif," he said quietly.

"Ah, well... can't have it all. So it was one of those goddamn Blues, right?"

Donut hesitated for a few moments of silence. The pain in his leg was nagging at him and making him want to tell Sarge what had happened. That it had been Caboose and that Tucker had put him up to it. He glanced at Sarge, then at Tucker, who was standing out of Sarge's view. Tucker raised his hand, wiggled his fingers slightly, then mimed a snapping motion. The message was quite clear.

"...No. I just got my leg stuck in a door, that's all. It was an accident," Donut lied.

"Really..." Sarge snorted. "Don't believe it. That the truth, lady?"

"Yes. I'm... just real clumsy. That's all."

"If that's true, you're gonna be more useless than I thought. Ah, bullhonky." Sarge grumbled to himself for a moment. "Well, can't be helped. You go on ahead and recover fast, soldier."

"Yes, sir."

Sarge nodded, glancing briefly at Donut's cast, complete with badly drawn naked lady.

"Hm. You know, those cards with the naked ladies on them were always good for soldier morale, back in the day. Good thinking, Cupcake. Keepin' up the morale, the manly way," he said approvingly. "Here I thought you were a fruit. Nice work."

Donut could see Tucker trying not to laugh behind him.

"Uh... thanks, sir?"

Sarge turned around and stomped out of the room, and Doc breathed a sign of relief.

"That man is so... stressful to deal with," he mumbled under his breath, before snapping his fingers and gesturing at Tucker. "Sit down, we'll get those stitches out. You'll look fine for your kid tomorrow."

"Great." Tucker nodded at Donut. "Wise choice there, girl."

"Oh, there was a choice?" Donut muttered bitterly.

"Heh... guess not," Tucker laughed. "Still, learn at this rate... you might actually make it through your time here."

Doc shook his head. "Tucker, stop threatening people within my earshot. That's not nice..."

"Won't do it again, Doc!"

As soon as Tucker was gone, Church pulled back the curtain.

"Is Joannes gone?" he whispered.

"Yeah, he's gone. Go to sleep, Church."

"Told you... told you there were ghosts around." Church shut the curtains again, leaving Donut to ponder.

If he'd actually been given a proper choice, would he have told Sarge what Caboose had done to him? Or that Tucker had started it? ...Probably not. Those were the rules in prison. Never snitch. Or else he'd probably end up like Church. Lying in a cot with five stab wounds, babbling about ghosts and giant ducks.


	13. Chapter 13: Visitor

**Chapter Thirteen: Visitor's Day**

"Dexter Grif? You can go in, now."

Grif was ushered through the door by the guard, into the visitor's room. Although room wasn't really the right word, it was really just a series of cubicles, with glass separating the inmates and the visitors. Grif was directed past most of the cubicles, where inmates were talking to family members, partners or friends, until he saw Sister sitting behind one of the panels of glass.

Grif scowled a little at the fact that, as usual, Sister was wearing revealing clothing. The usual denim shorts and tight shirts. He was pretty sure the guard in that side of the room was watching a little more closely than was required for his job.

Sister beamed at him. "Dex! I'd give you a hug if this stupid sheet of glass wasn't in the way!" She rapped on the glass once to prove the point that, indeed, there was glass in the way.

"Still visiting, then? I told you, you don't have to," Grif said, sitting down opposite her. "Shouldn't be spending your free time in this dump." Grif smiled a little as he said it, though.

"Chyeah, but you gotta live here. Which really sucks. How's the prison food? Have you made any alcohol yet? Can I have some if you manage to make it?" Sister asked, speaking a mile a minute.

"Prison food sucks, I'm getting there, and no."

"Aw, lame."

"It's gonna be shit compared with outside alcohol, anyway." Grif shrugged, then leaned forward a little. "You doing okay, sis? No-one's bugging you, are they?"

"Nope! If anyone acts funny around me I just tell them about you. It scares them right off. It's kinda neat. You're like a boogeyman specifically for boyfriends."

Sister smiled for a few moments more, but then the smile sagged a little. "I'd like it better if you were still out here, though."

"I know, I know. But there's not much I can do about it now. Just... sixteen more years. Hopefully. That's not that long."

"That's ages! You'll be, like, totally an old man. And that's really gross," Sister said, sticking her tongue out. "Can't you just escape or something?"

"If you find a way, let me know," Grif said wryly. "Like I haven't looked."

"Are you and Simmons married yet?"

"Okay, you need to stop asking that."

"But I want to be an auntie!"

"How is me getting married to a guy in prison going to make you a fucking auntie?!"

"That Tucker guy told me men could make babies."

"Tucker's an idiot!"

* * *

"Lavernius Tucker? You can go in, now."

Tucker shuffled in, looking around the room. He headed past the other inmates, past Grif arguing with his sister (he heard auntie and brother-in-law mentioned a few times) towards the furthest cubicle, where the two people visiting him were waiting.

Funny thing was, Tucker had known one of them for quite a while. But he never managed to catch the man's name. Mostly because he spoke mostly in honks and blargs, a trait that had been passed onwards to Junior. Tucker didn't know whether this was a mental thing, or because he came from a foreign country, or what. But Tucker just called him Crunchbite, because of his abnormally sharp teeth.

Though, really, Crunchbite was just weird. Those eyes seemed too close to yellow, and while he had originally thought that the ends of Crunchbite's hair were dyed blue, he wasn't so sure after Junior had been born with identical blue tips. Although maybe Crunchbite had just decided to dye Junior's hair as well.

Crunchbite and Junior. Tucker couldn't understand a word they said (although Junior had managed to pick up his catchphrase) but they were the closest thing that Tucker had to family. It was kind of depressing, really. As to how both he and Crunchbite were fathers of Junior... that was a story that began with Tucker selling various body fluids for money one day. He probably should have thought more about it, but he didn't regret it.

"Blarg," Junior said happily, resting his hands against the glass.

"Junior! Hey, kid!" Tucker seated himself down, reaching out to touch the glass too. "How's it going?"

"Blarg blarg. Blaaargh!"

"Great. Awesome. Did you teach those bullying kids a lesson?"

"Blarg," Junior nodded, grinning.

"Sweet. That'll teach them to make fun of you just because you can only speak two words." Tucker finally focused a little bit of his attention on Crunchbite. "Hey, man."

"Blarg."

"Have you got around to learning a bit of English, yet? I don't want Junior growing up speaking only two words, you know? Kids are supposed to know more than that once they reach six years."

"Honk?"

"You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?"

"Honk, blarg." Crunchbite's tone was insulted.

"Right, okay. You at least understood that I said you didn't understand. Okay." Tucker kept resting his hand against the glass, opposite Junior's hand. "Man... you're growing up fast, little guy. You were tiny when I came here."

Junior looked up at him and pointed at his face.

"Honk?"

"My face? Nothin' wrong with my face. Just a thing that happened, it's cool."

"Honk honk." Crunchbite's tone was sarcastic, this time.

"I said it's cool, okay? Shut up." Tucker lowered his hands from the glass. "Can't you take Junior to some English lessons or something? I'd teach him myself, if I got more than an hour of time a month."

"Blarg honk."

"Oh, that is fucking bullshit. Fine. I'll teach him myself when I get out!"

"Honk."

Tucker sighed, and closed his eyes. "Yeah... I know. He'll be too old for that." Tucker crossed his arms and rested his chin on them, his face level with Junior's. "You'll be, what... twenty-one, at least. You'll be a grown man the next time I get to hug you. Well, at least you got one parent around, right?" Tucker smiled at him, although the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

Junior climbed off his chair, and started rummaging through Crunchbite's bag. He eventually pulled out a piece of paper.

"Blarg, honk," he said proudly, holding the picture up to the glass screen.

Tucker gazed at him for a few moments. A scrawly picture of him, Junior and Crunchbite. Standing in front of a building which Tucker assumed was where Crunchbite and Junior lived nowadays.

"Sweet-ass picture, Junior," Tucker said.

"Honk."

"Aww, for me, is it? The guys will rib on me so much for having a crayon picture on the wall. It'll look like Caboose's cell."

"Honk?"

"Of course I'll hang it up there, little guy. Fuck the other inmates, your pictures are a top priority."

Junior blarged happily.

"You might have a little trouble getting the guard to give it to me. But you can manage it, can't you, Junior?"

Junior nodded, and clambered off his chair once again, trotting over towards the guard on duty. He pointed at Tucker, showing the guard the picture, but the guard shook his head. Tucker didn't worry. Junior was an adorable kid, even if he looked a little weirder than most. He could probably get that guard to break the door of the prison down for him, if only he could speak English. Amazing what an adorable kid can do to an adult's willpower.

Tucker swallowed a proud grin as Junior continued blarging convincingly. And Tucker just knew he was pulling puppy eyes. Eventually, the guard sighed and nodded, holding out his hand for the picture. Junior handed it over, and pranced back to the cubicle, looking pleased.

"Great job, Junior. Give it a few years, you'll be beating me out of a job," Tucker laughed. While he doubted that Junior would beat him that quickly, he thought that Junior would at least rival him in conning excellence one day. Junior was his father's son, after all.

* * *

"Dick Simmons? You can go in."

Simmons passed Grif on the way towards Sister's cubicle.

"How'd it go?" he asked quietly. Grif shrugged.

"Fine. She wanted to know if we were getting married."

"So, the usual?"

The guard shooed Grif out of the room before Grif could reply. Simmons crossed the room and seated himself in front of Sister, who smiled at him just as brightly as she had at Grif.

"Dutch-Irish brother!" she said happily.

"Hey, Sister. Enthusiastic as ever?"

"You know it!" Sister pointed at the door. "Is Dex doing okay? He kept changing the subject back to me."

"He's fine. He's just worried about you. You don't exactly have the cleanest record when it comes to guys, and you know how he gets..."

"I know, but it's cool. I don't even have a boyfriend at the moment. Not really, anyway..." Sister waved her hands. "Anyway, I know. Don't tell Dex, or he'll do something stupid. Like try to escape by fighting a guard with a minigun, using only his face. Actually, that'd be pretty sweet. Without the whole 'instant-death' thing afterwards."

"Yeah, that'd be right." Simmons rested his chin on his hands. "You are doing okay, aren't you?"

"I told you I'm fine. Stop looking out for me, seriously." An annoyed tone was creeping into Sister's voice.

"Sorry. I just don't want anything to happen to you. Besides, you know it would completely destroy Grif."

"Awww, you're worried about him, too. That's so cute!"

"No, no, no. I'm just saying, I don't want him to shrivel up and die. Or else I won't have anyone to argue with, you know."

"You care."

"Shut up. Besides, you're pretty much like a little sister to me, too. Only hotter. Oh shit, I said that outloud, didn't I?"

"Chyeah, but it's okay. It's a compliment to me, and I won't tell Grif."

"Thank god for that."

* * *

"Sheilaaaaa!"

Smash.

"Caboose, there is a sheet of bullet-proof glass between us," Sheila said patiently, as Caboose rubbed his nose where he had bashed it on the glass.

"Oh... I always forget. It's very clear, and I cannot see it."

"I know, I know. How are you?"

"Oh, good. Good. Good. ...not good. Not good at all. I lied when I said good."

"Did another pigeon fall over around you?"

"No... well, yes... but that is not the problem..." Caboose lowered his voice and did that whisper he reserved for being secretive. "I did a very bad thing." Sheila laced her fingers together thoughtfully.

"Do you want to tell me about it, Caboose?"

"I think you would hate me. It was very bad."

"Caboose, I don't think I could hate you. If I don't hate you after the things you've already done..."

"I didn't do anything!"

Sheila bit her lip, wincing just a little at the sudden shout. Bringing up the possibility of Caboose being guilty always got him upset, without fail. Keeping patients calm was always a top priority, and she kept to that. Even though Caboose technically hadn't been a patient of hers for a long time.

"Yes, of course... I'm sorry, it slipped my mind. But I won't hate you. Okay?"

"I made a friend."

"That's a bad thing?"

"No, that was a good thing. He was nice to me, and we played with pigeons," Caboose said, smiling widely. But then he went back to looking on the verge of tears. "But Church got hurt, and Tucker said that the only way to make Church better was to get Muffin Man inside the hurty people place, because he makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and he would make Church feel warm and fuzzy too... and so, I had to break his leg to get him there. And I think he hates me now."

Sheila nodded, trying to keep any trace of shock or nausea from her face. Something that, after years of being a doctor, she was quite good at. "I see. And you feel bad about it?"

"Yes? Why would I not feel bad?"

"Well, you don't nor... uh, never mind." Sheila waved her hand distractingly. "You said that it was supposed to make Church better again?

"Yes."

"Has it?"

"No. But it only happened yesterday. Tucker says it still takes time." Caboose blinked a couple of times, then started tugging at his own fingers thoughtfully. "I think... he might have been lying. He was very angry, because he hit his face on a screwdriver... which was very silly of him. But I have to ask Church to be sure, and I cannot ask Church until he is better again. I think Church will be angry at me, too. He got hurt because I was not around to stop it. And I am supposed to be around to stop it, but I was chasing pigeons with Captain Crunch."

"You can't do anything about it?"

"I want to... I want to make Private Biscuit like me again, but I do not think he will. He had that expression. The one when they think you have a special level of Hell saved for you."

"That's very specific."

"I have gotten the expression shown to me before."

Sheila smiled kindly at Caboose. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't believe that Hell has a spot reserved for you."

"That does help. I feel a little bit better."

"Do you really?"

"A little bit."


	14. Chapter 14: Lullabies

**Chapter Fourteen: Lullabies**

The time just after lights out there was always some kind of routine going on, both among the inmates and the employees. It was the time when a lot of shifts changed over and those who weren't on duty that night headed home. Or headed to the bar for some Pina Colada and Strawberry Yoohoo, like Sarge often did.

Obviously, the inmates couldn't return home at night. But many of them had their own little rituals that they did, especially after a day of visitors.

For example, one could count on Tucker to be attempting to stick up Junior's latest picture with tape he had bummed off one of the guards, and then stepping back to admire the collage of crudely drawn crayon pictures that covered one wall of his cell. He would stand back and ponder how the pictures changed over time and grew a little more detailed and a little less childish each time, just like how Junior was a little bigger every time Tucker saw him.

Sometimes, it was possible to see both Grif and Simmons looking through the photos that they kept in their cells. Both of their photo collections were of the same three people. Themselves and Sister. So they often stuck their hands through the bars and reached over to each other's cells in order to trade photos, while occasionally reminiscing about events that were usually stupid and trivial, but fun to remember. Grif stared at the photos and worried about how his little sister was doing. Simmons did as well, while also trying to remember the last time he'd seen his own family, and coming to the conclusion that he didn't give a shit.

While the inmates did these things, there would be the guards pacing around, the ones that were on a night shift. Like York, who was currently seated outside the infirmary, cursing the prison for how long it was taking to acquire a new door and eliminate the need to guard the infirmary. Truth be told, this shift was meant to go to Wash, but Wash disliked night shifts so York had offered to swap with him. York liked night shifts anyway, because they tended to be quieter.

Whether guards or inmates, they all had comfortable patterns that they'd settled into. But Donut still didn't have that yet. He simply hadn't had time to develop any routines to distract himself with, and he couldn't even attempt it in the infirmary. At the present moment he was trying to sleep, although he was having trouble doing so. Mostly because Church kept mumbling to himself, and it was very distracting.

Eventually, Church seemed to tire with just muttering to himself and sat up, pushing aside the duck-covered curtains.

"Hey, Tucker. He gone?" he whispered.

"Yeah. Sure." Doc had left some time ago, fifteen minutes before the lights went out.

"Finally. Thought he'd never leave. Dammit, I need to stretch my legs. Where's the floor?"

"What?" Donut turned over to look at Church. "You probably shouldn't be walking around. Don't you still have stab wounds?"

"Psh, not like it's the first time I've been stabbed. Fuck that." Church turned and removed his legs from the sheets, poking the floor with them tentatively. He pushed himself to his feet, and immediately winced. "Ow, fuck."

"Church, get back on the cot," York called from outside. "Come on."

"Fuck you, Jimmy." Church reached out and rested his hands against the wall. "Ow, jeez... this is a lot harder than I thought it would be."

"Church. Sit!" York climbed to his feet from where he had been sitting on the floor and held his nightstick up half-heartedly. "Come on, I don't want to hit someone who is already injured."

"I said fuck off!" Church growled. "I'm walking! I'm fine, dammit! I'm not some useless... fuck!" Church had twisted to shout at York, and now he was doubled over, holding his stomach. "Ow..."

"Okay, what'd you do?" York muttered, feeling around for the lightswitch. Once he turned the infirmary lights on, he hurried over to Church and tugged his hand away from his stomach, swearing quietly when he found that the hand was stained red. "Damn it, you tore your stitches. Okay... okay, it's not so bad, I just need to call Doc. Uh, Donut, wasn't it?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you keep pressure on the part that's bleeding? I don't want him going into shock from blood loss again."

"Can do."

Donut pulled himself out of the bed and hobbled (more of a semi-hop) over to Church, trying to keep his weight off his bad leg. York had made Church lie down again, not that it had been a difficult task once Church was bleeding again.

"Just keep his nightshirt pressed to it. I don't even know where Doc keeps bandages and things..." York moved to the back, towards the phone, while Donut did as York had said.

"That was really dumb," Donut muttered. Church just groaned in response.

"It fucking hurts..." he whined, almost childishly. It reminded Donut of when he was a little kid. He'd been very prone to sickness in his early years, and his mother (well, one of them) would hold his hand when it was particularly bad and sing lullabies... good memories.

Holding hands with an inmate was an incredibly stupid idea. But Church was half-delirious and Donut's motherly instincts were kicking in. Donut kept one hand pressed against the stab wound that was bleeding, and moved one hand to grip Church's own.

"It'll be fine," Donut assured him. "Just gotta be tough, alright?" Church's hand twitched.

"...you girl, Tucker," he mumbled.

"Yeah, I know. You alright? I... I can sing lullabies or something. Uh..." Donut paused for a moment, then started singing, "Go to sleep, my teddy bear, close your little button eyes..."

"Tucker, if you keep singing about teddy bears I will punch you in the fucking throat."

"Okay. Doesn't work, anyway. You're too grumpy to be a teddy bear."

Donut could hear York distantly shouting something about an answering machine.

"Doc, if you are ignoring this call I will rip your teeth out through your ass. ...no, that was not unnecessarily violent, just get back here..."

"Tucker?"

"Yeah, what? Any problems?"

"No, no problems at all. The fact that I'm fucking bleeding is not a problem at all!"

"You don't have to get angry..."

"Am I gonna die?"

"No, of course not," Donut said softly, still thinking about his mother and lullabies and other things that are inappropiate for comforting prison snitches. "You'll be fine. It's just a small thing."

"Well, good. Because if you fuck up and I die, your ass is haunted. You hear me?"

"Yeah, I heard you. Now, um... you want to talk about anything? Come on, anything I can do so you won't think about the pain?"

"Just..." Church shook his head. "Fuck, I don't care. Just don't leave."

"Can do."

Donut spent the next fifteen minutes trying to keep Church amused with whatever stupid stories came to mind. A lot of them were probably stories that Tucker wouldn't tell, as most of them were about his friends from back home, including his old roommate. And he knew Church probably registered that much, because there were some points when Church looked a little confused.

When York got off the phone he told Donut he could go back to sleep, but Church had protested against 'Tucker' leaving. Even though he claimed that it was just because 'if I don't get to sleep then Tucker doesn't get to, because misery loves company,' followed by a complaint that his stories were 'so boring they was almost making his ears bleed.'

Fifteen minutes later, when Doc ran into the room with a purple jacket over his equally purple pyjamas, Donut was regaling Church with an explanation of how he had ended up in prison.

"...and then the lawyer asked if it was self-defence, which it was. And I said so, but then they said that the amount of stab wounds from the kitchen knife were way too many for self-defence. But what was I supposed to do, I was scared! How often does your roommate try to strangle you for something, I don't even know what..."

"No violent stories, please, I just woke up," Doc complained. "Church, what did I tell you about moving?"

"Fuck off, Caboose. And no way are you coming near me with that needle. Get away."

"Church, no. No." Donut insisted, as Church was showing signs of trying to climb to his feet again. "Just... it'll be fine, I said. You're going to bleed to death otherwise."

Church squinted at Donut, looking suspicious. But he held still long enough for Doc to inject him with some kind of anesthetic.

"That better not be poison. Probably is, knowing you," Church grumbled. "Fuck... tired."

"You can go to sleep now."

"Fuck yes, I can. Didn't need your freaking permission..."

Church was out like a light just a few seconds later. Doc shook his head.

"More trouble than he's worth... sorry, that was harsh." Doc sighed. "Well, could be worse. At least we have the supplies necessary for stitches this time. We really need to stock up on supplies more." He nodded at Donut. "You can go back to sleep now. Watching people get stitches isn't very fun."

Donut let go of both Church's hand and the nightshirt he had been pressing to Church's stab wound. There was blood covering his hands. Donut blinked a few times, opening and closing his hands. He felt sick to his stomach for a moment, and all he could think about was his roommate and how much blood there had been... but the moment passed.

"He'll be fine, right?" Donut asked.

"Yeah, this is nothing like when he was dragged up here a week ago. Much less life-threatening, don't worry. Get some rest."

Donut wiped his bloody hands off and hobbled back to his own cot. He felt tired, too. But despite that, and despite the absence of Church's mumbling, it was no easier to go to sleep than before. If anything, it was a lot harder.


	15. Chapter 15: Information

**Chapter Fifteen: Information**

It wasn't until three days after Church's disastrous attempt at walking that he finally woke up properly, for the first time since the stabbing took place. Donut, once again flicking through Doc's yoga books, heard Church sit up. But he didn't really look up until he heard Church speak.

"The fuck?"

Donut looked over his book to see Church pointing at him. The glazed look he had for the last few days was less potent. But he still looked completely confused, albeit in a more grumpy way.

"Where the hell is Tucker? Why are you on his bed?"

"Where's..." It took a few moments to click. "Wait... back up a little. What's my name?"

Church rolled his eyes. "Donut. Franklin Delano Donut. What the fuck do you think?"

"Uhhhhhhh..." Donut fumbled with his words for a few moments. "So that means... you're sane again?"

"Sane? The fuck you on about?"

Donut put down his book. "Do you want the long version or the short version?"

"Just tell me what's going on."

"Short version? You've been hallucinating for nearly a week, you mistook me for Tucker, Doc for Caboose, and you smashed Tucker in the face with a book about Tai Chi because you mistook him for Jones, or Joaness, or whatever."

Church considered this for a moment. "I call fucking bullshit. I would never read a book about Tai Chi, that crap is for sissies."

"Ask Doc, then. He'll say the same."

Church grunted, staring off into the distance. He squinted for a moment, like he was trying hard to remember something that happened ages ago.

"Does explain why Caboose was walking around holding needles and talking in a way that made sense. And why your stories sounded so fucking weird. Tucker didn't kill any roommates." Church trailed off, then his eyes widened. "Oh shit. Hands... ew, gross." He shook out the hand that Donut had been holding three days ago. "Great, now I have to chop off my hand. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant." He glared at Donut. "Seriously. What was with the hand holding? That's fucking gay."

"Is it really so gross that you need to chop off your own hand?" Donut muttered, looking offended. "You didn't object at the time."

"Yeah, because I thought you were Tucker, you fu—shit! The fuck did I just say?" Church groaned, putting his face in his hands. "Shit! You didn't hear that. God, I must be high on painkillers or something..." Church stared through his fingers at Donut. "What are you grinning about?"

Donut grinned even more widely. "You held hands with me because you thought I was Tucker? I guess I could keep that a secret, you know... for a small price."

"You bitch. You tell anyone I said that, I'll make things real painful for you."

Donut pointed at his broken leg. "Things are already painful for me. That's not much of a threat anymore."

Church eyed the pink cast derisively. "Pink cast. Manly. Caboose's work, I assume?"

"Yeah..."

"Every time I wake up in the infirmary, someone at least partly responsible is always lying on a cot in here, with something broken. Lucky it wasn't your head."

Donut shivered briefly, before switching back to his grin. "Sooooo... you said you'd make things painful for me if I told. So if I don't tell, you'll leave me alone, right?"

"Hm? Sure. What the hell am I gonna get out of smashing you?" Church grumbled. "I mean, you're kind of useless. And girly. Only thing any inmate would ever try to get out of you is a prison bitch, and I'm not that desperate. You're not really good for anything."

The tone Church used didn't sound like he was trying to be deliberately cruel over it. He just sounded like he was stating a fact. A fact that, Donut reflected briefly, was more or less true. His special talent here was getting stains out of the jumpsuits, mostly.

Still, did he have to be so blunt about it?

"Well..." Donut ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. Then he smiled again. "Actually... can I get some protection? So this doesn't happen again?"

Church glared at Donut. "The fuck? I told you. I want information in exchange for that shit. Protection is fucking valuable."

Donut smiled back at Church. "I could always pass the 'information' I got from you to Tucker. I'm sure he'd find that information really valuable," Donut said sweetly.

"And you say you weren't a criminal on the outside? Because that's evil. Evil!"

"I'm learning."

Church scowled darkly. "You know what, I take it back. I wish Caboose had smashed your head in."

"That's a bit cruel. Besides, when you were hallucinating you told me you don't kill people."

"Dammit, did I? Don't spread it around, I like people being scared of me. They're more agreeable that way." Church threw his hands in the air. "Okay, whatever. I'll tell Caboose to keep an eye out for anyone being a jerk towards you. But you keep your fucking trap shut. Seriously. Or I'll make sure you lose the one thing that lets you keep your 'guy' status."

Donut would have instinctively crossed his legs at that moment, were one of his legs not immobile.

He expected to feel a little guilty. He was becoming a blackmailing jerk like the rest of them. Maybe prison was rubbing off on him.

Donut didn't feel guilty, though. He actually felt good. Things were looking up.

* * *

Wyoming breathed out a long wisp of cigarette smoke. Simmons disapproved of smoking, but he had to admit that Wyoming made it look almost classy. Like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, except that Wyoming's silly-looking mustache somewhat ruined it. It was quite a change from Grif, who had never shown an ounce of class in his life and most likely never would.

"Ah, Dick Simmons. Not often that you appear around me. Have you decided to take up smoking? Oh my, giving into peer pressure? Tsk."

"No way, I'm not going to waste my money on things that would kill me," Simmons said, eying Wyoming's packet of cigarettes with distaste.

"It would be quite out of character for you, wouldn't it? Then what do you want?"

"Well, you sell other supplies, don't you?"

"Of course. Did you want some other poison, Mr. Simmons? A fine bottle of whiskey, perhaps? Something more... special?"

"Could you find some Oreos?"

"Oreos?" Wyoming rested against the wall, smiling to himself. "Oreos... they still sell them, hm? Things don't change that much on the outside. I suppose I could acquire some for you. Must they be Oreos, or can they be some other kind of biscuit. Not that it matters to me, I can acquire them either way, but other biscuits might be acquired quicker."

"No, they have to be Oreos."

Wyoming shrugged. "Very well. How do you plan on paying, direct cash or laundry wages?"

"The second one."

"Give me a few weeks and you'll have them in your hands."

"Alright... by the way, Wyoming? You know of a guy called O'Malley?"

Wyoming didn't bat an eyelid at this question. "We have exchanged pleasantries before. But he is just one of thousands of inmates, and all inmates come to me at one point or another."

"There's nothing weird about him?"

"Weird? Of course not. Doubting my word, are you?"

Simmons shrugged. "Does anyone ever completely believe you?"

"Ah, fair point. That's a wise path to take, so I won't begrudge you for it, chum."

* * *

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Fuck off, Doc."

"Ohhhh, language. Now please answer the question."

"Four."

"Great! I think you're doing better."

"Yeah. Wow. I can count to four." Church raised his hands in mock celebration. "Hooray, I can count three more numbers than Caboose can. Achievement of the fucking year."

"And you're healing up alright, except for that wound you tore the other day. Most of the stitches can be removed in a week or so, you'll have to wait a few days longer for the last one."

"Whatever. Do you have any books that aren't about things for pussies?"

"Church, yoga is not... this is all I have."

"Fucking lame."


	16. Chapter 16: Monologues And Advice

**A/N: Apologies for the lack of updates lately. A mixture of sickness, schoolwork and attempts to get an internship is making it difficult to update as quickly as normal. But still working on it.  
**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Monologues and Advice**

You idiot, Church. You fucking idiot.

God, I must still be fucking high. I mean, jesus. Of all the things I could have blurted out, it had to be 'I held hands with you because I thought you were Tucker?' What the fuck does that mean? Even thinking that is just... weird. And now that fuckstick Donut is never gonna let me forget it.

Damn, if I hadn't sworn off getting people killed he'd be so dead right now. Maybe I can make an exception... nah, not yet. But if he ever blabs that out to Tucker, then goddammit, I don't care what promises I made to Tex.

Jesus fucking Christ. How does the majority of society work with the whole 'no killing people' rule? It's difficult. 'Course, I'm an evil douchebag, so maybe that's why. I would love to stick a fork in his eye right now. Jesus, I'm starting to sound like O'Malley. Maybe he's getting to me.

What the hell is wrong with me, anyway? I mean, holding hands with anyone, let alone Tucker... don't care how much fucking pain I was in, that's fucking ridiculous. What the hell happened to Tucker, anyway... he was bleeding pretty badly the last time I saw him. The last time I saw him while sane, anyway.

Jesus. He's okay, right? He's gotta be okay. Donut did say he showed up here once when I was insane... something about smashing his face in... but that's gotta mean he's okay enough to leave the wing. So, he has to be fine, but how could he be fine? There was so much blood. Goddamn it, he better be okay, I goddamn need him. No, wait... don't think that. I need him in a purely practical sense. Maybe in a completely-straight-buddies way. But that is it.

Crap, that sounded unconvincing even in my head... Okay, never mind. Just stop thinking about Tucker.

…

…

…

...fuck. I said stop thinking about it. Fucking brain doesn't listen.

You're high on painkillers. High on shitty painkillers, dammit. Now think about something else. Like... fuck, I don't know. There really isn't much to think about in prison. Especially with no blackmailing schemes to keep me occupied. Dammit. I need a new hobby.

I'm so getting O'Malley for this. Bastard. How the hell am I gonna get at him, anyway? Goddamn, why does he have to be so fucking crazy? The crazies are the hardest to get by. None of the blackmail material I have for him works, he doesn't care enough. Not to mention a large amount of it would get me into trouble, too. Fuck.

And even if I went against the 'no killing people' rule... which I would damn well consider for O'Malley, and I'm pretty sure Tex wouldn't care in that case... how the hell do I get him killed? I can't order Caboose to... Caboose is too damn scared of him. Of all the people Caboose had to be terrified of, it just had to be the one fucking guy that I can't deal with any other way. And I can't get Tucker to kill him, he's the only one of us that still has a chance of parole, and it'd just be mean to wreck that for him.

Maybe Wyoming would consider turning against O'Malley for the right price. But it'd have to be a damn high price. Hell, I'd get back at him too, but I'd make a lot of people angry... why'd he have to be one of the best sources of cigarettes? Damn Wyoming.

Jesus, now I've just made myself angrier. Why does every chain of thought end with me pissed off?

Fuck. It's going to be a long, long couple of weeks, isn't it? I'm starting to wish I was still insane. At least I wasn't thinking about what I was thinking about... or some shit like that... fuck, I don't know.

Where's that book on Tai Chi? Anything is better than mulling over this bullshit.

"Hey, Church. You actually tried any of the stuff in this book? It looks interesting. I'd try it if I could actually get up, but..."

Fuck, Donut borrowed it. That fuckstick.

"Donut, shut the fuck up."

"You are such a killjoy."

That's it. Fuck it. I'm going to sleep until I'm allowed out of this damn infirmary.

* * *

"You can't sleep twenty-four seven," Donut said to him, about a week after he'd woken up. Church had been sleeping as much as possible since then, in an effort to both pass the time and avoid talking to Donut.

"Fuck off."

"But I'm bored! I liked you more when you were insane. At least you were slightly more friendly."

"Yeah, as much as I'd love to be hallucinating again right now, I don't give a fuck. Now shut it, I'm trying to sleep."

"It's one in the afternoon!"

"Don't care."

"You're so mopey!"

"I'm not mopey!"

Once Donut had gotten over any fear he had of Church, it was much easier to be chatty. Which would have been awesome for Donut, were it not for the fact that Church was a miserable person to talk to. Always cranky and angry. Donut didn't know how Tucker and Caboose could stand to willingly hang around him.

"Come on, please? We can talk about stuff. Like, uh..." Donut paused to try and think of a topic that didn't include interior decorating. That would probably make Church even angry. "Uhmmmm... you know. Stuff. It's not like you have to put up with me for that long, you're getting out in the next week or so, I'm still stuck here for, like, a month and a half."

"Again... I don't give a shit."

"Aw. Man, you're such a jerk. How you got Caboose to like you, I have no idea." Donut then grimaced bitterly. "Although... it wasn't difficult in my case, either... not that it helped me, he still broke my leg with pretty much no hesitation."

"Pssh. So what? That's normal for Caboose," Church muttered, turning over so he was facing the wall. "He's a nice kid on the outside... on the inside, he's fucking cold about that kind of shit. Not that he'll admit it." Church started mimicking Caboose's slow way of talking. "'He fell over, I didn't do anything, really.' There's no way four people can just 'fall over' coincidentally... and that's just outside the prison."

Donut laced his fingers together, gazing at the ceiling. He had the cracks memorized, by now. "Four people?"

_Did he apologize to all of them, as well?_

"Four people. And seriously, I don't really want to talk about it. I don't want to talk to you at all, actually. So shut it."

Donut immediately bounced back to being slightly whiny. "But, I'm bored."

"Talk to Doc, then!"

"He keeps wandering out of the room!"

"Well, that's not my fucking problem."

"I'm going to annoy you for the next few hours, if you don't start talking willfully."

"Then I'm taking back that offer of protection."

"Oh, you wouldn't."

"Hey, if it's the alternative to you never shutting up..."

Donut tilted his head thoughtfully. "So... I can tell Tucker, then?"

"...fuck. No. I'll smash you."

"Then I can keep talking."

"No!"

"Make up your mind!"

"Just... gah. You know what?" Church sat up and turned to face Donut, looking extremely pissed off. "You're shit at getting people to like you!"

"That's not true... I had friends on the outside," Donut muttered defensively.

"I meant in here, jerkoff. Babbling constantly about girly garbage, gossiping about people holding hands and being a general fruity asswipe might have worked around the twinks and fag hags you probably hung out with before prison. But guess what. It doesn't do shit in here. It won't get you friends. And you need friends in here."

"Bit rich coming from the guy who swears, yells at and blackmails everyone, isn't it?"

"So? I still got people who aren't quite as annoying to hang around. Trust me, I hate the whole needing friends thing. I mean, I'm pretty awesome and other people just water down the experience of being Church. But there's this line in prison. On one side of it, prison is still shit, but it's... bearable. On the other side... let's just say that's the point where most inmates start making nooses. And that line heavily depends on having someone who doesn't hate your guts. Yeah, I might be awesome by myself, but five years of having no-one but an ex-girlfriend to talk to... well..."

"You obviously didn't hang yourself," Donut pointed out.

There was a long moment of silence before Church said, "It wasn't from a lack of trying." He rubbed his throat absently, looking rather tired all of a sudden. "You don't want to cross that line, Donut. You have to have people in here, or else you aren't going to make it. And given your amazing skills at making friends, as shown by you siding with O'Malley and mucking shit up that way..."

"Right, O'Malley. Doesn't he violate the 'needing friends' rule."

"O'Malley's... special. I don't mean that in a good sense. Instead of friends, he has..." Church wrinkled his nose as he searched for the right word. "...He has favorites. People he particularly likes to torment. Trust me, if he got bored with torturing people he'd probably hang himself, too. The place would be a lot better if he did that. Fucker.

"Point is? If you keep annoying people, they're not gonna want to hang around you. God knows I'm considering hanging myself again just so I don't have to keep listening to you. And all the protection in the world won't matter if you're too lonely to care about whether you croak or not." Church glared at Donut, before adding, "You look like you'll collapse pretty damn quickly without anyone to talk to, given that you haven't shut up since I woke up. So either find someone who actually likes your bullshit, or stop being such a fucking annoying fruit."

Church turned over to face the wall again. Donut just gazed at his back for a while, staying silent as he did so.

Things just made a lot more sense now. Why Grif and Simmons stuck together despite the fact that all they did was argue. Why Caboose looked so forlorn once he realised Donut probably wouldn't like him anymore. Why Church hadn't wanted Donut (Tucker) to leave when he was bleeding the other night. They were just guys trying to make it through prison while keeping their sanity intact, and they needed other people to do that. Even if they were murderers.

Donut stayed silent for a while longer before picking up the book on Tai Chi that he'd grabbed while Church wasn't looking before.

"Do you want the book back?" he asked quietly, holding it out as far as he could without accidentally falling out of his bunk.

Church didn't reply for a while, and Donut assumed he was being ignored. He'd been about to take the book back when Church rolled over and grabbed the book from Donut's hands.

"Whatever. Nothing else to do," Church grumbled.

No swearing or insults. No babbling. No blackmail. Just one of them passing a book to the other. As close to friendship as they were probably going to get, for now. At least it didn't involve yelling at each other.


	17. Chapter 17: Benefits

**Chapter Seventeen: Benefits**

"Oh. My. God." Church stretched properly for the first time in nearly a month. "Never appreciated how awesome being able to move was until now."

"Hey, don't stretch too much!" Doc said reproachfully. "You're not completely healed, you're just well enough for the stitches to be removed. Don't overdo it, or you'll tear at it again."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey. Donut, check this shit out. I can stand." Church made a 'ta-da' gesture, grinning at Donut, who groaned and crossed his arms.

"Jerk."

"And I fucking know it."

"Church, no mocking the patients."

"You're no fun at all, Doc. You know that?"

"Yes, you tell me that repeatedly. It's really quite hurtful," Doc sighed. "Now, I've taken you off laundry duty until you're back to 100% health. Should only be a couple of weeks. I'd prefer to keep you here, but..."

"If you try, I'm gonna blow the new door off its hinges."

"Now, I know that's an empty threat. ...You have nothing flammable. Anyway, you should be safe for a couple of weeks. O'Malley is still locked up in solitary, so no danger from there. If O'Malley was still wandering around, there's no way I'd let you out there."

"I still would have blown the door off."

"Always the violent solutions... Okay, you stand there—don't leave—while I go find a guard and get them to take you down to the yard." Doc shuffled off, mumbling something about too many threats. Church continued stretching and demonstrating just how awesome it was to be able to stand again, partly because he knew it was annoying the hell out of Donut.

"Will you stop that?" Donut fairly near shrieked, after about three minutes of this mental torture. Church lowered his arms, which he had been stretching over his head, and smirked. "I get it, you can move around. Stop rubbing it in my face!"

"Jealous much?"

"And you say I'm evil..."

"Yeah, I did say that. That doesn't mean I'm not an evil douche, too." Church sat down on the end of Donut's bunk. "Okay, that reminds me... in regards to this whole protection deal. Once you get out of here, Caboose will keep one eye on you. That alone will be enough to stop nearly anyone from even trying to hurt you. But you go back on your part of the deal and he'll snap your neck. Got it?"

"What happened to your no-killing policy?"

"Caboose doesn't have that policy."

"Oh. Uh..." Donut fidgeted nervously. "Is there any chance of getting protection... that isn't Caboose?"

Church snorted. "Scared of him?"

"...yeah. A little. ...A lot. Okay, I'm terrified."

"Well, fucking tough. I don't have the time to convince another inmate to do it. At least not without wasting blackmail material. And besides, Caboose is the best for this kind of thing. He probably won't even have to lift a hand to help protect you, only morons more braindead than he is would be dumb enough to try and fight him, and honestly that's just doing a favour for the gene pool. Seriously, it's like volunteering to tackle an ox."

"Or a gorilla," Donut muttered, remembering his first impressions of Caboose.

"Damn right. Have you ever tackled an ox or gorilla? It's fucking painful."

* * *

"Motherfucker!"

Church had forgotten how bright the sun was. He raised his hands to shield his eyes from it, swearing under his breath at whatever religious/scientific forces made the sun so fucking bright.

He scanned the crowd of orange jumpsuits, looking for Tucker and Caboose. Caboose was easy enough to find. He was sitting against one of the walls and looked like he was asleep. Obviously he hadn't seen Church yet, or Church would have already been subjected to Caboose's patented Flying Tackle Hug Of Rib-Cracking Doom.

Church was a little surprised that Tucker wasn't with him. The two didn't get along, but they normally stuck together when he wasn't around despite that. Probably because Tucker needed protection from the many people he'd pissed off over the years, and most people were too afraid to voluntarily hang around Caboose.

It didn't take much more time to find Tucker, who was seated on one of the benches and playing around with a set of scratched dice. He'd probably been gambling with other inmates, something he usually did when he was bored.

Just seeing Tucker and recalling the hallucinations made Church feel incredibly awkward.

_Okay, it's cool. You were hallucinating. On painkillers. Painkillers that probably had liquid gay in them or something. Besides, Tucker doesn't know about what goes on in your fucking head. Or whatever drug-induced things you blurted out in the infirmary._

Church started to make his way through the groups of inmates towards Tucker, who still had his head down, rolling the dice around in his hands.

_I hope he doesn't know, anyhow. I mean, I'm the one who is supposed to have 'ears in the fucking walls' but I get a lot of information off Tucker, maybe he was somehow listening. Bastard. Nah, I'm being stupid... I hope I'm being stupid, anyway..._

As Church got closer, trying to squash his way through another group of inmates, Tucker looked up and spotted him. That was the first time Church caught sight of the scar running down the side of Tucker's face. It was still so obviously fresh. Shiny and painful-looking. It made Church's stomach drop a little.

_Shit. If he hadn't tried shoving me out of the way... fuck, that looks painful._

Tucker stood up as Church finally reached him. He wasn't wearing his usual grin. He stared at Church for a few seconds, his eyes slightly squinted, like he was trying to bring something into focus. Church just stared right back.

_Wow. This really is fucking awkward. Say something to break the silence, come on... fuck, nothing is coming to mind!_

And then Tucker raised his hand and smacked Church right on the nose. Not hard enough for it to break or bleed, but enough for it to sting like hell.

"Ow! Fucker!" Church shouted, rubbing his nose. "The fuck was that for, Tucker?"

"That was for whacking me in the face with that book," Tucker explained. Then his face broke out into that shit-eating grin that Church knew way too well. "So, you're sane? Awesome, because I didn't want you to keep freaking out and mistaking me for a dead guy. That was lame. If you'd gone all permanent crazy, that would have been shit. We've already got Caboose and O'Malley around, two crazies is already too much."

"Yeah... because there's no better way to show the joy than punching someone in the face," Church grumbled.

Tucker snickered, but then it lapsed into awkward silence again. After what seemed like forever, Church spoke up again.

"That... looks fucking painful," Church said, gesturing at the scar. Tucker frowned, and covered the scar with his hand. "Listen, I... uh... about the screwdriver thing..." Church trailed off.

_Goddammit, I'm sorry. It's my fault you got your face slashed open... _

That's what Church was thinking, but he just couldn't say it. The words just kept catching in his throat.

Tucker shook his head, and smiled wryly. "Forget it. It did fuck all, anyway."

Church shifted uncomfortably. _Go on, at least thank him or some shit. You managed to thank Donut, didn't you? What's the difference, now? Aside from the fact that you can actually see the damage, anyway... Ack, is there any way to say thanks that doesn't come off as mushy? Fuck._

"Er... yeah. Okay," Church muttered.

_You fucking coward._

"Church!"

Caboose's gleeful shout broke the awkward silence pretty quickly. Tucker's eyes widened slightly as Caboose attempted to wade through the other inmates towards them.

"Shit... Church, if he asks if Donut made you feel better, can you say yes? Or else he's going to literally murder me."

Church didn't have any time to ask why before he had to throw out his arms to stop Caboose from grabbing him in one of those rib-cracking hugs.

"Get the fuck away from me!" Church snapped. "Can't be hugged by you, shit hurts enough as it is."

Caboose did lower his arms, although he was pouting as he did so. But he quickly smiled again. "Church! You are not dead! You were not getting better, and I thought Tucker was being a mean liar again, but you did get better. And so Captain Buttermuffin must have made you better again, right?"

_The fuck is he on about?_

"Uhh... what?"

"Yeah, made him all better," Tucker said, grinning. "Just like I said. I'm not a liar, see?"

Church gave Tucker a 'you-are-a-liar-aren't-you?' glare, and received from Tucker a 'play-along-or-I'll-haunt-you' stare in return.

"Uh... yeah. That's what made me better. It wasn't, y'know... the actual medical treatment or anything..."

"So, that means that hurting Muffin Man did good? And you will not be angry for me not being there to help you when O'Malley was being evil?" Caboose asked nervously, shuffling from one foot to the other. "Because my second-best friend hates me now, and I do not want my best friend to hate me, too."

Church's original plan, while in the infirmary, had been to pretty much tear Caboose a new one for being tricked by Donut. Shouting was pretty much an automatic reaction towards Caboose, anyway.

But dammit, the kid was staring at him. With those fucking puppy-dog eyes. Church debated briefly whether tearing out Caboose's eyes and attaching them to one of those dangly hypno things would help him convince people to do shit for him easier.

"Okay... uh... you fucked up. But can't be bothered to shout at you for it. Besides, you gotta do something, and if you don't fuck this up, then that'll... kind of make up for it." Although on the inside, Church still hoped that Caboose would fuck up protecting Donut. Stupid blackmailing fruit loop. "When Donut gets out of the infirmary? Just make sure no-one hurts him, alright?"

Both Caboose and Tucker looked surprised. Tucker, in particular, looked both surprised and like he was about to throw something. Caboose just looked even more nervous than before.

"You mean... I can talk to Admiral MacMuffin again? But he still hates me. I do not think he would like me being near him."

"I didn't say he had to like you. I just said make sure he doesn't get fucked over by any of the crazies."

"Why the fuck are you protecting Donut?!" Tucker yelled angrily. "After all the trouble of getting him inju-" Tucker stopped for a moment, then continued. "Why does Donut suddenly get protection?"

_Oh shit. I never thought of an excuse._

"Uhm..." Church waved his hands vaguely. "...In exchange for the... health benefits?"

"Oh, fucking bullshit..."

"Hey, look. Tex is over there. And I just remembered I really need to ask her something," Church said quickly. "I'll... I'll be back in a minute."

Church sped off towards Tex, trying to think of an excuse to talk to her, purely so he could think of an excuse to give Tucker about the protection. He couldn't tell Tucker the truth, could he? Tucker would never let him live it down, even if it was induced by painkillers.

It was totally induced by painkillers. Fucking. Gay. Painkillers. Besides, even if it wasn't... it was just a weird idea. And stupid, because getting that close to anyone, especially the guy who hits on everything that moves and still claims no homo, was a horrible idea. Insanity-preventing friendship was one thing, but... well, Church wasn't a believer in the necessity of having a prison bitch. Or anything that involved a lot of touching and... feelings and shit.

Besides, if he hadn't gotten involved with Tex... if it hadn't been for all his girly feelings and shit... he wouldn't have ended up in prison in the first place. So, no way. No way was he going through another clusterfuck like that. Not again.


	18. Chapter 18: Oreos

**Chapter Eighteen: Oreos**

"The hell is up with him?" Tucker muttered. "Church isn't usually so vague about things. I mean, seriously... 'health benefits?' The fuck does that even mean?" Of course, the... double entundre that could be was completely obvious, especially to Tucker. But no. Too weird. Besides, Church was a frigid bitch.

"It is obvious. Muffin Man helped Church get better. So Church will help Muffin Man stay not-hurt once he is not-hurt again," Caboose said. Incidentally, the first words he had said towards Tucker since Tucker had convinced him to break Donut's leg.

"You're talking again, I noticed."

"Yes. Because you were not lying and Church is better. So, you are less stupid than I thought."

_Okay, so he's back to just thinking I'm stupid. I guess that's better than angry and murderous._

"Right... but 'health benefits' doesn't make sense!"

"It makes good sense!"

"No, it doesn't. It really doesn't."_ Because I made that shit up._

Tucker watched Church talking to Tex. He didn't look like he had any idea what he was talking about... and Tex looked on the verge of hitting him with her nightstick. Which wasn't unusual on her part. The two were often on rocky ground. A guard and an inmate, especially an inmate like Church, could never really be that close, regardless of what had happened between them before Church was locked up. Or maybe because of it.

Church did come stomping back to them pretty quickly, probably because the other choice was getting punched in the face.

"Right... okay. Caboose. Go, uh... go stare at the wall again," Church muttered. "But don't wander off this time."

"Why?"

"I just need to have a word with Tucker. It's gonna be a boring conversation, you don't wanna fucking listen to it. It involves math."

"Oh. Okay."

Once Caboose had dutifully gone and started staring at the wall once again, Tucker crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow. "Health benefits, Church?"

"What'd you want me to say? Apparently you told Caboose that Donut was doing something like that. Why does he think that 'Donut helped me get better?' Because if anything he made it worse, he wouldn't shut up for weeks." Church narrowed his eyes. "Does this have anything with Donut breaking his leg?"

"Yeah... a bit." Tucker briefly explained how he'd gotten Caboose to hurt Donut. "It was nothing huge, I just needed to convince him."

"...Caboose thinks Donut is his friend. Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"And you still made him break his leg?"

"I was going for both legs, but yeah."

"You're a fucking piece of work. I don't know whether to be fucking angry or impressed."

"Why would you be angry, Donut's a little backstabber!"

"Not that." Church jerked his head in Caboose's direction. "How's Caboose been since that happened, huh?"

"Hey, don't get all mad about me over that. He didn't stop eating or anything, it was fine," Tucker said defensively. "Besides, how was I supposed to know he'd actually get upset over it?" Church sighed.

"Whatever, just don't try that again. If Caboose gets... you know, too depressed... where would that leave us? Without fucking protection, you dumbass."

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Fine, jeez. But you're just avoiding the subject. Why the fuck are you protecting Donut?"

"Uh, well. See, some stuff happened..." Church paused for a moment. "He... uh... found out some of the blackmail material I had. For other inmates. Things that I was saving for if we got into a bad place and needed some particularly bad stuff to bust out of it with. Stuff I need to keep absolutely fucking secret."

"How'd he find out about that stuff?"

"Well, you know how... I was kind of hallucinating and I thought he was you?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I told him a fucking lot of stuff that I shouldn't have, because I thought I was talking to you."

"Oh god. You dumbass, Church."

"Tell me about it. All that stuff about Simmons' hacking activities or that stuff about Grif's sister and her drug habits... Grif and Simmons get wind that those secrets aren't quite as secure as I said... well, I don't want those two as my enemies. I mean, you know what they did to get in here, right?"

Tucker sniggered. "Oh yeah, I've heard. Brutal stuff. And if that stuff was spilled, they'd have nothing to hold them back, either. I wouldn't envy you, that's for sure."

"And there's others that I might have blabbed about a little. So, in exchange for Donut's silence..."

"You've given him protection for that."

"Yeah. But... uh, don't mention this to anyone. Not even to Donut, since I said that deal was just between us. Don't mention the real reasons to Caboose, either. As far as he knows, it's just a thank you for Donut 'helping me get better.' And, well, don't tell anyone else. Obviously. Got it?"

_I guess that makes sense... But, I dunno... some of that stuff... like, even if he thought it was me and not Donut... why would he talk so extensively about the blackmailing information we have? We barely mention that out loud as it is. Maybe I'm thinking too much. He was high as a fucking kite, after all._

"Yeah. I got that." Tucker snorted. "Makes more sense than 'health benefits'. Seriously, that makes it sound like it was a thank you for Donut fucking you or something."

"...That's gross."

"I know, right? Difficult, anyway. I mean, neither of you were up for moving around much, although... I guess he could move enough to give you a blowjob or something."

"Tucker. Stop talking."

"Fineee. Okay, even though protecting Donut means getting him injured in the first place was totally useless... I guess I can not get too pissy over that."

"Great, because you being pissy always sucks. It's almost as bad as hanging around Tex during time of the month."

"Hey!"

"I said almost!"

* * *

While Church had been cursing the sun just a few minutes earlier, Grif was stretched out on one of the benches and absorbing the heat like some lazy, orange plant. This was, to Grif, the closest he could get to heaven while surrounded by stone walls.

At least, that's what he thought.

"Catch."

Grif, being Grif, didn't even bother trying to catch it. Simmons knew he wouldn't, and had aimed so the package would land on Grif's face, so he would at least have to acknowledge it rather than think 'Simmons is throwing things at me, so I will just ignore him.'

"What the hell are-holy crap." Grif sat up, holding the package in front of his face. "Oreos?"

Simmons sat down next to him. "Yeah."

Grif turned the package of Oreos over in his hands, frowning slightly. "Why?"

"Do I really need a reason?"

"No, really. Why?"

Simmons shrugged. "I don't know. I just thought it'd be nice. You were talking about the old days recently, so... I just thought... I mean, they're just Oreos."

"Just Oreos? They're not... just..." Grif tried to form words, while clinging to the Oreos like they were made of gold. "They're... aw, man. I'm getting all choked up."

"That almost sounded like you meant it."

"Dude, you have no idea just how much I meant it."

"God, only you could get choked up by a gift of Oreos."

Grif laughed, tugging open the package. "Yeah... But you're the only guy in this place that'd know that." He took one of the Oreos, and held the package out to Simmons. "C'mon, if this is gonna be like the old days, you have to eat some too."

About halfway through eating, Grif reached out and very briefly linked his and Simmons' fingers, a quick enough gesture so most of the inmates wandering around wouldn't notice and rib on them for it.

"Hey... I'm glad that I got stuck here with you, of all people. Even if you're kind of a kissass."

Simmons ducked his head down, his ears going red. "Ah, that's embarrassing. But... same here, even if you're a lazy fatass."

Lying on a bench and absorbing the sun without anyone pestering him... Grif had thought that would be the closest to heaven he could get in here. Now, sitting back on that bench and eating Oreos with Simmons, reminiscing about old times... this was so much closer.


	19. Chapter 19: Forgiveness

**Chapter Nineteen: Forgiveness**

The day that Donut's cast came off was also the first time that Donut had seen his face in a mirror since he'd been locked up in the first place. Although the last two months hadn't felt that much like a prison sentence, seeing as he'd been in the infirmary and hadn't seen that many inmates or guards during that time, especially once Church had been released back into the prison population. Besides Church, it had just been the occasional inmate that had gotten indigestion from the macaroni.

Donut hadn't actually changed that much in appearance. Although his hair was growing, and was thus returning to its natural brown colour at the roots. Donut pondered whether hair dye was allowed in prison before dismissing the idea. But it was little things like that, or like the fact that his nails weren't neatly manicured anymore, that reminded him of where he was.

Even after the cast came off (and it was such a relief to not have to look at the badly drawn naked lady Tucker had put on it) it was some time before Doc would let Donut out of the infirmary. Donut had to practice walking again, and even once Doc deemed him well enough to leave again, Donut still couldn't walk that far unassisted without having to stop and rest.

Having the chance to go back to the normal prison routine was a weird feeling. It scared Donut a little, because going back to that meant going back to being terrified of everything. The infirmary, at least, was safe.

On the other hand, there wasn't much to do in the infirmary. There was barely anyone to talk to. Doc did talk to him while he wasn't working, but the conversation got a little strained after such a long time of talking to nobody but him. Doc was a pretty nice guy, that was for sure, but he was also very easily offended. Although they did manage to have a lot of chatter over their mutual love of yoga and cooking. But even that got boring after a while.

It was mixed feelings about being released, that was for sure. Of course, even if he'd wanted to stay he wouldn't have been able to. The guard that entered to take him back to his cell informed Doc that they needed the extra cot, just in case something particularly violent happened.

When Donut was let out of the infirmary it was pretty close to lights out. There was a very strong sense of deja vu. The guard prodding him past the cells, passing the other inmates... it was extremely similar to the first time he had been guided to his cell. The only difference being that, this time, he knew some of the faces. Maybe that was why walking past all the cells wasn't as scary this time.

Not quite, anyway.

The guard unlocked the door of Donut's cell and pointed him inside. The cell hadn't changed a bit. It still smelt like someone had thrown up in there.

_I should really do something about that._

"Hey. You really aren't dead, huh?"

That voice had come from the cell next to him. Simmons' cell. Donut shuffled closer to that side of his cell, so that he could hear Simmons a bit better.

"Don't think so. Unless the afterlife looks a lot like prison."

"That wouldn't surprise me," Donut heard Grif mumble from his own cell. "I bet God is that twisted. Or Satan is that twisted. Whatever."

"Nah... he'd be more creative. So... how's things out here? Anything happen?"

"Nothing, really. It's been pretty quiet, and hardly any violence at all." Donut heard Simmons shift around a little on his cot, which gave out a rusty squeak. "Just how the prison is. Some of the time it's peaceful, sometimes people are going in and out of the infirmary like there's a revolving door installed. How's your leg?"

"Pretty flimsy. But I can walk again... well, kind of."

"At least you got survived your first beating. Everyone ends up in the infirmary at least once. Like I said, it's almost a weird initiation. Kinda determines whether someone is tough enough to not die from an attack."

Donut leant further forwards, his face against the bars. "You guys went through that, too?"

"Oh yeah. Fucking hurt," Grif said cheerfully. "How'd it happen? I don't even remember..."

"I think I said something patronising to that angry guy that work in the kitchens?" Simmons mused. "And you jumped right in as soon as the fight started. So I got beaten up by the angry cafeteria guy, and you got beat up because Sarge punched you out afterwards for interrupting my 'test of manliness.'"

"It was a shit week," Grif said idly.

"Yeah. ...Hey, Donut. Does your cell smell off?"

"Smells like someone threw up."

"Thought it might, the last inmate there was sick. A lot. I think he was transferred because of it... or he died, I can't remember which," Simmons said off-handedly. Donut glanced back at his cell apprehensively. "Eh, doesn't matter. People have died in most of the cells, the inmates in this section are on life sentences, after all... Anyway..." Donut heard Simmons climb off his bunk, followed by a large amount of shuffling noises, like he was looking for something. After a couple of minutes, something nudged Donut in the shoulder. He could see Simmons' hand reaching through the bars, poking him with a plastic spray bottle. "Here. Won't make the smell go away, but it'll cover it up some."

"Thank god for that. Thanks, Simmons! Best cell neighbour a guy could have."

"Lies," Grif muttered under his breath. "Try living with it for four years. Not including the stuff in the apartment before that..."

"No problem," Simmons said, ignoring Grif. "My cell smelt pretty rotten when I got in here. I forgot I had the spray until a couple of days ago. Toss it back when you're done, though. Grif's cell smells like decomposing fruit at the moment, and it's leaking in."

"That's just the pruno."

"That's just disgusting, is what it is."

* * *

Breakfast had a great sense of deja vu, too.

It was noiser than it had been the week leading up to Donut's injury. Probably because all six of them were there. The seating was exactly the same as that first day. Which meant Donut was stuck between Simmons and Caboose.

Donut supposed it made sense that he was stuck next to Caboose again. Caboose was technically his protection, now. But not a word was exchanged between them through the meal. Caboose looked like he was about to say something several times, but each time he seemed to reconsider it. And Donut just didn't have anything to say to him.

Grif and Simmons would direct conversation towards Donut, so the meal didn't seem awkwardly silent. On the opposite end of the scale, Church seemed very determined to look anywhere but where Donut was sitting. Tucker kept glancing between Church and Donut. Those glances weren't quite as filled with animosity as the glares Donut had received after Tucker's face had first been slashed... but they were very close. Which was odd, seeing as the last time he and Tucker had talked face to face Tucker had actually been pretty civil, if not quite friendly.

Donut kept getting a sense of deja vu throughout the meal, but he also got a very strong feeling that he had missed something.

* * *

Donut had been assigned back to folding clothes, although they'd at least given him a chair to sit on while his leg was still flimsy. And Donut was okay with folding clothes, it was a lot better than waving the iron around or trying to get weird stains out of the clothes.

"Uhm, Mister Poppinfresh?"

Donut froze very briefly before he continued folding clothes, trying not to look upwards. "Yes?"

"I... was supposed to deliver clothes to your folding-clothes pile."

"Okay."

Caboose dropped a basket of orange jumpsuits on the counter next to Donut. "Church said that I am supposed to make you stay not-hurt. So... that means I will not hurt you again. Unless Church changes his mind, but I do not think he will. He said it is in thanks for the health benefits."

Donut, once again, paused in the middle of folding clothes. "Health benefits?"

"Yes. Because you are a warm, fuzzy blanket."

Donut rested against his chair and looked up at Caboose. "What does that even mean? I'm not a warm, fuzzy blanket. Why not just use, you know... an actual blanket?"

"Real blankets are not as warm. Although, you are not as fuzzy as a blanket... but your head is kind of fluffy." Caboose reached out like he was going to try and confirm that Donut's hair was fluffy, but Donut jerked away from him. In the process, he accidentally toppled his chair over and screamed in a slightly effeminate fashion. Although he would deny it later.

"Oww." Donut managed to climb to his feet again, although his leg felt achier. Caboose withdrew his hand and linked both his hands behind his back.

"My hands are not near you anymore," Caboose stated. "Will you stop being scared now?"

Donut moved his chair so it was upright again and quickly sat down. "I... I'll try not to be scared, but..."

"But?"

"Well... it's not just your hands I'm scared of. You're just... kind of scary. To me."

"I scare a lot of people. But you were not scared when we were looking at pigeons."

"Because you hadn't hurt me yet."

"...Can we pretend that I never hurt you, then? I can do that. I am a good pretender."

_How do you pretend something that horrible never happened?_

Donut continued folding clothes, trying to stall for time. He was still shit scared. But Caboose did seem like he honestly wanted to start over. And he, at least, had thought he was helping someone when he hurt Donut. As opposed to Tucker, who had just wanted vengeance.

But Donut just couldn't forgive him instantly. Two months of pain and pink casts and isolation and nothing to read but books on yoga and Tai Chi didn't go away so easily.

On Donut's first day, he had lied to Church because he was afraid of him. And now he had to lie to Caboose for the exact same reason. Deja fucking vu.

"Okay. The... the accident never happened," Donut agreed quietly. Caboose's face brightened.

"So now we are bestest friends again."

"Uh... sure."

_God, I wish forgiveness was that easy. ...Guess I have no choice but to try._


	20. Chapter 20: Piggy Back Ride

**Chapter Twenty: Piggy Back Ride**

"You don't have to follow me everywhere, you know. Aren't you supposed to be guarding Church, too?" Donut sighed, as Caboose trailed behind him on their way towards the cafeteria.

"Church is near the guards at the moment. He will be safe. And I have to do an awesome job at guarding you, he said," Caboose insisted.

"I think I can get to the cafeteria without being attacked. It's not that far."

"But that might just be what they want you to think."

"Who?"

"Uh... I do not know? Bad people? There are a lot of them in prison."

"Well, can't argue with that." Donut started to slow down; his leg was getting achey again. It tended to ache whenever he walked fifty or so steps. Donut came to a halt and rested against the wall.

"Captain Cookie? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just achey. I just need to rest here for a minute. You can go ahead."

"Is it the hurty leg? The one we are pretending I did not hurt?" Caboose tilted his head. "Does walking hurt?"

"Not that much, it's fi—whoa!" Donut yelped, as Caboose picked him up with the amount of effort it would take Donut to lift a piece of paper. Caboose slung Donut over his shoulder and started walking towards the cafeteria. "Hey! Hey, put me down!"

"But this is easier than walking," Caboose said.

"Not that much, put me down! I don't like being carried around, it's demeaning! I can walk, let me go!" Donut thumped on Caboose's back in protest. "Come on, please!"

"When we get to the food-eating place."

"Nooo..." Donut whined. After squirming for a bit and realising that it wasn't doing much good, he crossed his arms and pouted. "Please, I don't want to be carried into the cafeteria. Grif and Simmons will never let me live it down."

"I think they would. They are not as bad as other people. Grif is usually nice to me, he does not shout at me or anything. Simmons does not shout much, either. Although he got mad at me because I accidentally dropped a book I borrowed from him in macaroni. He shouted a lot at me for that. It was very noisy."

"What kind of book would Simmons have that you'd be interested in?" Donut pondered. He'd seen some of the books Simmons owned when passing by his cell. They were mostly science fiction and stuff about computers. Simmons was pretty big on computers and he insisted that he had to keep up on technology while he was in prison. Even the science fiction stuff was filled with technobabble.

"Uh... it had pictures." Caboose thought about it for a moment. "They were pretty pictures, with aliens and stuff in them. So, I think the book was about aliens. I am not sure. I cannot read."

"Can't read, huh?"_ I can't say that's surprising._

"No. I used to be able to. Sheila says I cannot read anymore because I have... uh... I don't remember what it was called. Something-asia? No, that can't be right... it was not Chinese." Donut felt Caboose shrug. "I do not know."

"Who's Sheila?"

"She is my outside-prison friend. She is a doctor. She said she practiced, um... nuu-oh-lo-gee? Sheila is a very nice lady. She visits me, sometimes. And that is good because if she did not I would have no visitors," Caboose said cheerfully.

"No visitors? Your family doesn't visit you or anything?" Donut asked. He couldn't see Caboose's face, but he felt his shoulders sag a little.

"They do not want to see me."

Donut was still scared, especially since he was being carted around by Caboose like a paper doll. But an odd feeling of pity crept into his stomach, along with the sudden compulsion to cheer Caboose up. A hug would be difficult, what with Donut being upside-down and all, but he could manage a pat on the back at least.

"At least you got friends in here, right?" Donut said hopefully.

Caboose brightened almost immediately. "Yes! I have Church and Admiral Buttercrust! And that makes me very fuzzy inside. Well, Church is not a very warm and fuzzy man. He is more like a pack of icecubes... very angry icecubes... but that is good in a different way!"

"How is a pack of bad-tempered icecubes good in any way?"

"Well... icepacks are good sometimes. Like when someone kicks someone else in the crotch." Caboose paused for a few long moments, then added, "I do not think Church should be put on someones' crotch, though. That would just be weird."

* * *

"Somehow, I don't think part of being protection involves being a choo-choo train for the protectee," Simmons mused.

"Shut up, Simmons," Donut groaned. _I told Caboose... I told him they'd never let me live it down... but did he listen? Noooo..._

Since Caboose had wandered into the cafeteria with Donut slung over his shoulder and been ordered to put him down by York, Simmons and Grif had been making not-so-subtle fun of him. It was quickly getting old.

"I get it, guys. Ha ha, I was being carried around like an idiot. It's not that funny, seriously."

"Hey, we need something to mock," Grif insisted. "We don't actually have anything else to do. We don't even have anything to take bets on... nothing is happening, lately. If it keeps up, I'm gonna have to borrow one of Simmons' books, and I hate reading those things. The endless technobabble makes me want to hit my head against something."

"Just because you don't have the smarts..."

"Smarts has nothing to do with it. It's fucking technobabble, it doesn't even make sense..."

"Yeah, well... you don't see me mocking you guys," Donut muttered. "Not about, say, the fact that Grif is Simmons 'knight in shining armour' when it comes to prison fights. Or knight in an orange jumpsuit, whatever."

Simmons ears went red. "Shut up, Donut."

"It's kind of true," Grif said, stretching out on his usual bench.

"Grif!"

"Oh, like you can say I'm not. You're too stringy to hold your own in a fight."

"I'm not that fucking stringy."

Donut smiled and twisted his hands together idly, as the other two resumed their usual arguing. Arguing was the best way for them to pass the time, anyway.

Simmons did eventually nudge Donut in the back, saying, "You haven't played in one of the sports games yet, have you?"

"No." Donut had completely forgotten about the sport that Sarge had mentioned until now. He just hadn't even realised that he would have to play while his leg was still flimsy.

"Two days until the next one. Hope you don't get sent to the infirmary again."

"Uh... is that common?"

"Depends on who is playing. And who is mad at who," Grif said, lighting a cigarette. "Simmons once took the opportunity to 'accidentally' punch Church in the face."

"Yeah. Accident," Simmons muttered.

"Uhm... so, the sports thing? Is it a bloodthirsty war or a bonding experience? Because I've heard both."

Grif shrugged. "Sometimes it gets violent, but there's guards there to stop it. It's never a bonding experience, though, that's just what Flowers wants to believe. Honestly... it's pretty fucking pointless."

"You're just saying that because you're too lazy to ever try," Simmons shot back.

"Oh, come on. There is no way I'm voluntarily tackling Caboose."

"Anyway... don't worry about it. None of us are really that motivated to try. Worst comes to worst, you might have to go to the infirmary for an icepack or a bloody nose. Rarely anything big. If anyone tries to hurt someone else seriously, they take them off the sport pretty quick."

"You think that they'd let me stop playing if I hurt someone enough? I could do that," Grif said.

"Don't even think about it."

* * *

"Of all the things Caboose could choose not to fuck up, it had to be protecting Donut," Tucker sighed. "Couldn't he have not fucked up something else? Like, I don't know... stopping O'Malley?" Tucker tossed his set of wooden dice in the air, simply because he had nothing better to do.

"There's still time for him fucking up. He's only been working as protection for a couple of hours," Church pointed out. "Caboose wouldn't stop O'Malley, anyway, he's too shit scared. You're looking forward to Caboose fucking this up way too much, you know. It's a little scary."

"Yeah, so sue me for not liking a guy who backstabbed us."

"Hey, not liking is one thing. Hoping that his protection fails, which would likely mean either injury or death? Dude, that's fucking twisted."

"Coming from you? Dude, who's the one in here for multiple murders? You can't talk."

"True, but at least I never talked a guy into suicide. That's evil."

"Dude, that was an accident. Accident!"

Church snorted. "How can you talk a guy into killing himself on accident?"

"I don't know, it was just way too easy. And bringing that up was a harsh blow, I still feel guilty for that."

Church shifted on the bench, his chin resting on his hands. "Yeah, that was low. My bad."

Tucker continued throwing his dice in the air, while Church just stared off into the distance. A few minutes passed like that, with the silence getting awkward. Something that had been happening far too much in the past few weeks.

And it seemed that particular awkward silence was just one awkward silence too many for Church.

"Okay! Okay, fine! Thank you! There, I fucking said it!"

The sudden outburst startled Tucker enough so that he fumbled with his dice, dropping one of them under the bench. "What?"

Church crossed his arms and continued to stare off into the distance. "I said fucking thank you. You know... for shoving me out of the way."

Tucker reached under the bench for his dice, not replying for a few moments.

"A bit late, isn't it? That happened over two months ago."

"Yeah, well... I meant to say it earlier. I just... didn't." Church shrugged. "Shut up, man. Better late than never, or some fucking shit like that. Because I... did appreciate it. You know... kind of."

Tucker resumed tossing the dice in the air. He had a slightly embarrassed smile on his face. "Yeah... well, it's a fucking late thank you. But... you're welcome. I guess."

It quickly got quiet again after that. But it wasn't the awkward kind of quiet.


	21. Chapter 21: Overreaction

**Chapter Twenty-One: Overreaction**

Donut wasn't sure what he was expecting Flowers to be like. All he knew was that he was captain of the guard, and that Sarge said he was a 'conniving evildoer.' With all the ranting on how much of an evil asshole Flowers apparently was... Donut had been expecting a tough and sadistic jerkass.

Flowers wasn't like that. In fact, he was strangely similar to the guidance councillor at Donut's old high school. Down to the long, hippy-ish ponytail.

"Line up, gentlemen."

Of course, maybe Sarge's reasoning was that anyone who could call a group of murdering scumbags 'gentlemen' had to be twisted enough so that they would seem like gentlemen to him. Or maybe Sarge was just insane.

Donut looked around the tiny dirt square that was used for sports. He hadn't even known it existed, since it was shoved at the back of the prison and the only outside part of the prison that Donut visited regularly was the main part of the yard. Donut had assumed that they only played sports in tiny groups because it helped keep them under control, but maybe it was because there was hardly any room to run around here, even with only six inmates.

"You there, new kid," Flowers said, stopping in front of Donut. "I'm Captain Flowers... you can just call me Captain or Cappy. I am happy to welcome you to our bonding exercises, and if you feel at all under pressure... remember, this is just for fun, despite whatever Sarge says. Now, I don't want to force you to do anything you're uncomfortable with, so I have to ask... are you sure you can play so soon after breaking your leg?"

_Was that a chance to get out of it? Yes!_

"Well, actually..." Donut started, before being interrupted by Sarge.

"'Course he can play! No Red gives up so easily just because of a broken leg! Except Grif, but he's just a problem in himself. Don't you be brainwashing my troops, Flowers!"

On the inside, Donut lamented the loss of that one chance of freedom.

"Brainwashing? I wouldn't do that. I'm a team player."

"So you say... Reds, over on that side. Move it, ladies!" Once they were out of earshot of Flowers, Sarge lifted the soccer ball he was holding in his hands. "Bad news, men. Those idiots from the smuggler's section of the prison managed to kick the football onto one of the prison roofs. So, had to borrow this off my nephew. I have no clue how to play soccer, but I'm sure it still involves tackling and other various tests of manliness..."

"I'm sure we can make the best out of this situation, sir," Simmons said quickly. Sarge nodded with approval.

"Keeping the motivation. Good man, Simmons."

"Fucking kissass," Grif muttered.

"Shut it, dirtbag. Now get in front of the goal-net-thing. If one of those Blue bastards attacks you... just keep blocking the net, even if your life is in danger. Hell, especially if your life is in danger. A dead Grif can only be a bonus in this situation!"

The 'goalposts' consisted of nets that looked like they hadn't been replaced in half a century, despite the fact that the sport had only been started in the last few years. Grif trudged over to one and sat down in front of it, quietly lamenting the fact that he wasn't allowed to smoke during the games. Caboose was standing in front of the other, currently distracted by a pigeon sitting on one of the roofs. None of the Blue guys looked too enthusiastic about the game of soccer, either.

The only two that looked somewhat happy about the situation were Sarge and Flowers. Donut wondered why they hadn't just pushed the task of overseeing the games onto some of the other guards. It wouldn't have been difficult. Who was going to argue with the warden or the captain?

"I don't know the reason, for certain," Simmons said when Donut asked him. "Maybe they just like sports. Sarge treats it as a bloody war, so maybe he just misses the fighting from the war. That's my guess. And Flowers always oversees the games between any set of inmates with a high-violence risk."

_High-violence risk. Woohoo._

Donut sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his orange jumpsuit. This was going to suck.

* * *

Doc was cleaning the infirmary for the third time that week. Now that he didn't have any long-term patients, he didn't actually have much to do until someone either injured themselves or needed their medication.

He wasn't paying enough attention to his surroundings, and so he didn't hear the door open. He didn't notice anything until he heard someone speak behind him.

"Finally, I was tired of waiting for the pastry to leave."

Doc yelped and jumped a foot in the air, quickly backing away from O'Malley, who was standing behind him. "Jesus! I mean... not Jesus, that's offensive to Christians... or is it offensive to people who aren't Christians... how did you get in here, O'Malley?"

"The door isn't guarded anymore, you fool," O'Malley said snidely, perching on one of the cots and grinning widely at Doc. "And really, what kind of greeting is that? I'm hurt. Truly."

Doc shook his head. "I'd apologize to most people for that... you, however... What do you want, O'Malley?"

"Need there really be a deeper motive behind everything I do? I'm just very bored at the moment. You should be flattered that you're my first choice for visiting while bored."

"And you couldn't have waited until your medication time? You need to learn how to be patient, O'Malley." Doc kept on cleaning, like O'Malley's presence didn't bother him. It did bother him, but probably not to the extent it bothered others. Once O'Malley took what he deemed a 'liking' for someone, although that didn't seem to mean the same thing to him that it did for saner people... he followed them whenever possible. He trailed behind Doc so often that it had actually spooked Doc a little when he hadn't shown up at all for the last couple of months.

"Patience is not one of my virtues, Doc."

"Virtue isn't one of your virtues," Doc muttered under his breath.

"Oh, that is cruel. Cruel."

"I'm sorry, I lost my temper there," Doc apologized. Inside, he berated himself for being such a pushover. "You never did say what you wanted."

"Anyone been bothering you?" O'Malley asked. While this might seem like an innocent question of concern from someone else, whenever O'Malley said it he got this weird glittery look in his eyes and his crazy grin always got just that little bit wider. Doc sighed.

"I'm not saying anything about that."

"You're not going to say anything this time? You seemed so pleased that someone was showing concern about you last time. And the time before that. And the time before that..."

"Yes. But it was a very odd coincidence that every time I spilt stuff like that... like saying that one of the inmates had been insulting me... funny how they always ended up in here a few days later. I know that was your doing."

"Oh, no. That wasn't me. That was one of the other crazy psychopaths in the prison. There's quite a few of them, after all."

Doc raised his eyebrow, still wiping down the surfaces and making sure never to turn his back on O'Malley. "Really. So, I complain that Church was being a jerk whenever he was sent in here, and he just magically shows up in here with five stab wounds? Stab wounds that I know were caused by a rusty screwdriver?"

"Coincidence," O'Malley grinned.

"Furthermore, stab wounds located in places that would hurt, but wouldn't be fatal. Something that only someone who knew a lot about anatomy would be able to locate so easily. A former surgeon, for example?"

"I'm sure that there are other psychopathic surgeons in the prison," O'Malley said dismissively.

"No, O'Malley. Just you." Doc sighed. "I know you probably won't listen to me... you never do. But please stop hurting people. Especially on the basis of who has called me a 'pussyfest' lately."

"Someone called you a 'pussyfest?' Who?" O'Malley asked, grin stretching even wider. Doc could swear it wasn't physically possible to grin that wide.

"No, O'Malley. I'm not telling you. I don't know whether stabbing anyone who insults me is some weird way of showing affection or just a twisted way for you to choose victims... but stop it. Okay?"

"I can't stop something I haven't been doing, you fool." O'Malley paused, looking around like a dog who has just caught a scent. "...A fight is about to happen. I can feel it in the air. Ooh, that's good anger, I can nearly taste it."

"I wish I could sense things like that," Doc said wistfully. "I'd be able to help anyone who was injured so much quicker."

"Oh, you and your idealistic thinking," O'Malley snorted. "You really are a pussyfest."

"Pacifist, O'Malley. Pacifist."

"It means the same thing to me." O'Malley climbed to his feet. "I think I'll be leaving... if it's going to be a bloody fight, I don't want to miss it. Save up some stories of inmates bullying you, I do love to listen to them." O'Malley pulled open the door and left as quietly as he had entered the room.

Doc put down his cleaning rag and wandered to the back to get the first-aid kit, just in case O'Malley's hunch about a fight was right. It often was. O'Malley had a bizarre sixth sense for that kind of thing.

* * *

Just as O'Malley had declared that a fight was about to happen, Donut landed face first in the dirt.

_Ow._

It took Donut a minute to realise he'd been tripped. He hadn't been expecting it, the game had been going pretty smoothly until that point. Admittedly, that was probably because no-one had been really trying. Donut didn't mind sports himself (aside from the whole 'playing-with-violent-murderers' thing) but his leg was still achey. Also, he was more of a netball player than a soccer player.

Still, Sarge had been pretty insistent that they at least score once against 'those dirty Blues' and Simmons had mentioned that it was difficult to get Sarge to call it quits if they were losing. So, Donut had figured he might as well try. So he'd been hobbling along, chasing the ball at a pace that would make a turtle ashamed...

But then someone had tripped him.

Donut rolled over to see Tucker standing not too far from him. He was grinning. Perhaps tripping Donut was just a small way to punish Donut for... whatever he had done to make him so angry. Still, it could have been an accident... and really, it wasn't like tripping someone was that big of a deal... better than a punch in the face or a broken limb.

Apparently, Caboose didn't think so.

Before Tucker could even move Caboose had grabbed him by the collar. He pulled Tucker towards him, and due to the height difference that meant lifting Tucker clean off the ground.

"Why did you do that to Admiral Poppinfresh?" Caboose demanded angrily. Tucker made a choked noise that, roughly translated, probably meant 'I can't breathe, you bitch!'

"Caboose!" Church shouted. "Put him down!"

"But, Church! You said protect Captain Buttermuf-" Caboose paused mid-sentence as a clicking sound interrupted him. Flowers had walked over to where he had left his holster and weapon, and he was now pointing his gun directly at Caboose.

"Caboose, I don't want to shoot one of my own men. But if you don't put Tucker down, I'm afraid I'll have to. You're not being much of a team player at the moment," Flowers said sternly, almost like a school teacher scolding an elementary school kid who had thrown a tantrum about not getting the right colour of glitter.

"Put him down, Caboose!" Church shouted frantically. "He's can't fucking breathe, put him down!"

Despite the fact that Flowers was the one pointing a gun at him, Caboose only let go of Tucker when Church shouted at him. Tucker landed in the dirt with a thud, wheezing for breath.

"Crazy... fucktard..." Tucker rasped between breaths. Caboose ignored him, instead stepping around him towards Donut.

"You okay, Mister Poppinfresh?" Caboose asked him, looking concerned. "Did Tucker hurt you?"

"Fuuuuh?" Donut squeaked. "Fuh... wha... he just tripped me! Maybe even by accident! Did you really have to... wasn't that a bit overboard?!"

Caboose just shrugged in response.

"Aw, and we were so close to getting rid of one of those goddamn Blues," Sarge sighed wistfully. "Back to the game, then."

Flowers lowered his gun and shook his head. "Not that I like cutting our bonding exercises short... but it would probably be best to stop for today. I don't think there's much goodwill among us at the moment. Tucker, you might want to go to the infirmary, just to check that nothing is injured."

"'Kay, Cappy," Tucker groaned, still massaging his neck as he trudged back towards the main building. Church, after an angry glare back at Caboose, followed him. Flowers holstered his gun and stopped in front of Caboose.

"Because you didn't do any serious damage and because you were just concerned for a friend, I'm going to let that go with just getting the log for the next couple of weeks," Flowers told him. "But that is not the team spirit, Caboose. You keep injuring people on purpose like that and you'll have to be put back on sedatives again. You don't want that, do you?"

"I hate sleepytime medicine. It makes me dribble," Caboose mumbled.

"So we've reached an understanding? You won't do that again?"

"If Tucker leaves General Buttercrust alone, then I will not have to."

"We can still keep playing," Sarge grumbled. "You've still got a Blue, and he might even injure Grif next! Best of both worlds!"

"It wouldn't be a fair victory to the Reds, sir," Simmons called from the goal area, while Grif searched his pockets for his packet of cigarettes.

"Ah, fair point. Then I consider this a Red victory by default!"

"We didn't even do anything," Grif pointed out. "I slacked off, Donut tripped and Simmons was nothing but a kissass."

"You never do anything, dirtbag. Doesn't mean a thing where you're concerned!"

Donut finally climbed to his feet and started brushing dirt off his jumpsuit. Caboose was standing in front of him, rocking back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. Maybe he sensed that Donut was a little freaked out by the fact that he'd nearly strangled Tucker for such a minor incident.

"Did I do something bad?" Caboose asked. Donut finished brushing his clothes off before replying.

"Caboose, do you even realise that strangling people is much worse than tripping them?"

"But I do not like Tucker. I like Private Biscuit," Caboose stated, like that completely justified it. Donut twisted a bit of his hair around his finger, resisting the urge to groan.

_Did no-one ever explain this sort of thing to him? Jesus._


	22. Chapter 22: Cheap Toys

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Cheap Toys**

"I still do not get it," Caboose said, trying to fold orange jumpsuits. He kept getting distracted, however, so most of the jumpsuits he folded were messed up and crinkled. And that was just the ones that were recognizably folded. It was an improvement from getting his head stuck in the jumpsuit pants, but all the wrinkles in the jumpsuits were making Donut twitch.

"Don't get what?" Donut asked.

"Why you were so upset. About the Tucker thing yesterday." Caboose frowned at the orange jumpsuit. "I know why Church was upset. He actually likes Tucker for some reason. But you do not. And you still got kind of upset about it." Caboose shrugged. "I do not get it."

"I told you... it's the principle of the thing. You just aren't supposed to strangle people. It's like putting your elbows on the table. It's not... good etiquette. Even if the person hosting the dinner is the grumpy great-aunt that nobody likes, you don't do that."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Yeah... I went a little off-track." Donut was crouched down, staring at the washing machine and waiting for it to finish swirling so he could start drying the jumpsuits inside. "It's just not cool to attack people in the first place. Unless it's totally necessary. Which it totally wasn't. I know you're supposed to be protection, but that's going a little nuts."

"Church did not mind if I hurt people he did not like. Unless they just happened to fall over afterwards. Then he got mad. But besides that, Church did not mind. He said that it kept them all scared so they would not annoy him."

"Yeah, well... I'm not Church, am I?"

"No. Church is taller... and he has facefuzz."

"Mmhm." Donut watched the jumpsuits go around in circles, still waiting for the washing machine to finish up. "Don't you ever get sick of it?"

"Sick of what?"

"Of everyone being terrified of you. Isn't that lonely?"

"I am used to it. People have always been scared of me. I was not a nice kid." Caboose made a dunking gesture. "I used to stick their heads in toilets."

Donut shuddered. "Ew, swirlies. I used to get those all the time. Mostly from guys who were either homophobic or jealous that their girlfriends talked to me more. Ergh. Swirlies sucked. And not in the fun way."

Across the room, Tucker paused in the middle of ironing jumpsuits. He suddenly had the feeling that he had missed someone making a double entendre.

* * *

There were many things that O'Malley despised. He hated parrots. He hated sunny days. He hated those shiny round things that they put on cupcakes sometimes. But there was nothing he hated so much as boredom.

The lack of violent activity available just made him angrier. Somehow, dissecting his macaroni did not have the same appeal as stabbing something that screamed and bled. By now his macaroni was just a pile of yellowish mush. But despite the fact that the macaroni was probably as dead as it was ever going to get, O'Malley still didn't feel any better.

And to top it all off, Doc hadn't let slip of anyone annoying him. How boring. Who was he meant to torture now? Of course, he did still have a few people on his list. That blond pastry, for example. O'Malley owed that little squealer some payback. And even if he hadn't owed payback, that pastry was so pretty and soft... the type that would be easy to break. Probably squeals like a pig, too. Tormenting him would be a cheap thrill that wouldn't last long... but it would be enough to alleviate his boredom.

Of course, lately that blond pastry always seemed to be followed. Mostly by that monkey, Caboose. O'Malley didn't care. If anything, that was a bonus. Two in one. And Caboose was another favourite victim, although it was a lot harder to inflict physical torture on him. Mental torture, however, was easy. To the point where it had gotten boring. Caboose had been fun to torment once, but he was already a broken toy.

O'Malley climbed to his feet, holding his tray of mushed macaroni. He winded his way through the tables, stopping behind Wyoming. He leant forward a little, one arm resting on the table.

"You have my screwdriver?" O'Malley muttered. Wyoming didn't look behind him, but he removed something wrapped in paper towels from his pocket. After making sure none of the guards were looking, he slipped it towards O'Malley.

"Don't misplace it so quickly this time, old chap. There won't be any of those for another month," Wyoming said quietly. "I'll be upping the payment if you keep getting them taken off you."

O'Malley snorted, moving away from Wyoming's table and slipping the wrapped screwdriver into his pocket. A new screwdriver and some possible victims. A grin crossed O'Malley's face. The day was looking up. He cheerfully hummed a song that his mother had taught him about washing his hands.

* * *

"I need to go to the library."

Donut looked up from his food. "Caboose, you can't read."

"But I like the pictures." Caboose rocked back and forth on his chair. "I need help finding a book. I cannot read the titles but I like to know what the book is about, so I can make up the story. And Church will not help me this time because he is angry about yesterday."

"Sure. I haven't seen the library, anyway."

"Yay!"

Caboose spent the next few minutes bouncing around impatiently on his chair while Donut finished his macaroni. As soon as he finished, Caboose grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him out of the cafeteria.

"Books, books, books!"

"Caboose, you're hurting my arm."

"Oh. Sorry." Caboose let go of Donut's arm pretty quickly, but he continued bouncing around on his feet. "I hope they have books with wizards and sword-fighting. I always wanted to be a wizard, but my sister, Bailey, she said they do not exist."

"Ooh, I loved those stories when I was a kid. Fighting dragons and rescuing princesses and stuff," Donut said, smiling. "But then I decided I'd prefer to have a jetpack... and secret spy liquid."

"That. Would. Be. Awesome." Caboose paused for a few moments. "What does the spy liquidy stuff do?"

"Secret stuff, of course. Secret spies always have secret things."

"Right, right!"

A couple of minutes after leaving the cafeteria, Caboose came to a halt.

"Uhhh... is it this way or that way..." he muttered.

"How could you get lost, we've gone down the one hallway," Donut sighed. Caboose scratched the back of his head.

"Normally I follow Church there... I think we might have gone past it," Caboose admitted. "I think it was closer to the... the..." He had turned around to face Donut, and immediately all the colour drained from his face.

Before Donut could ask what was wrong, he felt someone slip an arm around him and press a screwdriver to his neck.

"You're impossible to get alone, these days," O'Malley told him. "Closest I can get is just you and your pet monkey."

"I haven't done anything," Donut yelped, trying to keep as far away from the screwdriver as possible, an impossible task seeing as it was being pressed to his neck.

"Haven't you? Haven't you, my little pastry?"

_Oh god... he must know I told Grif and Simmons... how'd he..._ Donut stared at Caboose. _Oh god, why isn't he moving?_ Caboose seemed glued to the spot. He had his arms half raised, like he was going to fight, but his expression was terrified. Like he was staring at the devil.

"I'm not going to kill you. Not yet. If I killed every person I played with I'd run out of people to torment. I just want to know how loudly you squeal. I bet you squeal like a little, pink piggie..." O'Malley pressed the screwdriver a little harder, so that just a couple of drops of blood leaked out.

"Let... let Commander Twinkie go," Caboose managed to say, although it was near impossible to understand him because his voice was shaking so badly. O'Malley laughed, and took a step backwards, dragging Donut with him.

"Commander Twinkie? Aww, such a sweet nickname. Really." O'Malley's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "I believe I dubbed him 'pastry' first, though. Funny how our minds work in sync, isn't it?"

"Let him go!"

Donut felt O'Malley tighten his grip, and his breathing quickened. "I really don't feel like it. Do you think I would, just because you asked. You fool. But if you're that desperate, why don't you just rescue him yourself? You have the strength of an ox, don't you?"

Caboose didn't look like he was about to try and rescue Donut. He looked like he was about to run for it. He wasn't actually backing away, but he wasn't moving forward either.

"Can't do it, can you? Just walk away. Walk away. Don't worry, Mikey..." At the useage of that name, Caboose flinched like he'd been slapped in the face. "If he's good, I might not even leave any scars. He might even enjoy it." O'Malley used the hand that wasn't holding the screwdriver to stroke Donut's face briefly. Donut's breathing became harsher and more panicked. "Just a little bit of fun with a pretty little pastry. No more criminal than some of the things you've done."

Caboose shook his head. "No... I did not... They fell over. They fell over!"

O'Malley snickered. "Really... I believe we've been over this before. Might be nice to argue over it again, for old time's sake... and so your little friend can hear for himself. I'm sure he'd like that. Wouldn't you? Like to hear all about your friend's filthy record? About the so-called boogeyman in the closet? About the stairs that Mikey swears were just slippery from the rain?"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Caboose screamed, stepping forward and raising his fists angrily. He still looked terrified, but he also looked mad... madder than Donut had ever seen him. O'Malley took another step back, giggling at the reaction.

But he was focusing just a little too much on Caboose. Donut felt his grip slacken just a little bit. The screwdriver slipped just an inch away from his throat.

Donut took that chance and jerked backwards, slamming the back of his head directly into O'Malley's face.

He was sure he heard a crunch and a scream from O'Malley, and he felt something slice his shoulder as O'Malley stumbled back, but before he could see the damage—or even see what O'Malley looked like, for that matter—Caboose had jumped forward and grabbed Donut's arm.

"Run, run, run, run, run..." Caboose took off back the way they had come, dragging Donut along with him. They both ran. Donut tried to run as fast as he could, even though he was dizzy from slamming his head against O'Malley and his leg still ached and quickly started screaming in protest. He kept running until the pain became too great and he wobbled, yanking his arm out of Caboose's grip and stumbling into the wall, clinging onto it like it was a lifeline. Caboose came to a halt and stared at him, eyes still wide with terror.

"Admiral Sprinkles?"

"Sorry, just... leg... hurts..." Donut said, still breathing heavily.

"You... you are bleeding..."

Donut instinctively looked down at his leg before remembering that O'Malley had got him with the screwdriver just before they ran. He felt his shoulder, where the screwdriver had scraped him. He could feel blood dripping from it, and it stung like hell, but it didn't seem to be too deep. It could have been worse. It could have been his throat.

"It's... It's fine," Donut said shakily. "I just need to go to the infirmary for bandages, but it's not bad."

Caboose stood still for a few seconds. He still looked frightened and angry, and he was shaking. Then, without warning, he turned and slammed his fist the wall. The impact left a spider-web of cracks.

"Caboose, what—"

"Useless! Useless... all I had to do was help you and help Church, and... and every time I mess up!" He punched the wall again, leaving more cracks in the wall. "Cannot do anything except hurt people... and when I need to hurt people, I... then I cannot do it." He raised his fist, like he was going to punch the wall again, but he stopped. He looked back at Donut, who was staring right back at him while trying to stop his shoulder bleeding. "And now you are bleeding, and instead of helping I am punching a wall. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid..."

Donut didn't know what to say. When Caboose reached out to try and help him towards the infirmary, he automatically flinched away. As well as the lingering fear that he had of Caboose, that angry outburst had terrified him.

Plus, he couldn't help but wonder what O'Malley had been about to say about what Caboose had done in the past.

Caboose lowered his hands when Donut flinched. "...I am sorry."

"It's okay, just... just give me a minute to calm down, alright?"

* * *

O'Malley sat against the wall, touching his nose. Blood was trickling from his nostrils, where that blond pastry had hit him.

The pastry had hit him. The girly, pretty pastry had actually hit him. He had to admit, he hadn't seen that coming. Even as insane as he was, he was fairly sure the normal reaction to a possibly broken nose was probably not to laugh. But goddamn, was he laughing. He kept cackling until his sides ached. He just couldn't help it.

He just found it so funny... He had thought the pastry would be easy to torture. He hadn't speculated for a moment that the pastry would fight back. Maybe he wouldn't be so easy to break, after all.

O'Malley leaned against the wall, still giggling to himself. He had thought the day was looking up earlier. And despite the lack of torture (even if there had been blood) O'Malley considered the day to be better than he had hoped for. Toys are no fun if they're the cheap kind that break too easily, after all.

Things were gonna get interesting again. O'Malley was sure of that.


	23. Chapter 23: Jacket

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Jacket**

"Three visits to the infirmary in less than three months. That's... that's pretty bad. What kind of enemies have you made, Donut?"

Doc wiped blood away from Donut's shoulder, while Donut kept his eyes on the ceiling. Even if it was just a shallow gash he didn't like watching himself bleed. Caboose was sitting on a nearby cot, watching.

"I fell on a screwdriver," Donut said stubbornly. As much as he would love to blab, it wasn't worth another screwdriver injury.

"That's what they all say. I fell on this. I fell on that," Doc sighed. "I have to report this in, you know. Even if you did just fall on it. Which, no offence, I seriously doubt. Where's the antiseptic... Hold still, this is going to sting."

Donut tried not to whine, but he couldn't hold back a few small whimpers. Each time a whimper slipped out, Caboose flinched. This didn't escape Doc's notice.

"You sure you don't want to wait outside, Caboose? If it's making you uncomfortable..."

"I am staying."

"If you insist."

It only took a few more minutes for Doc to bandage Donut's shoulder. The silence was only interrupted by Doc's muttering about inmates getting hurt too much, and pondering on why they couldn't just get along.

Doc picked up the jacket portion of Donut's orange jumpsuit. The shoulder was tattered and bloody.

"I'll take this, it's too tattered and icky to keep. It'll be repaired and given back in a few days. I don't know if you have a spare jacket, but I can't let you wander around in this one. What with it being bloody and unsanitary and everything."

"You don't have a spare? It's freezing! I can't wander around in an undershirt!"

"Sorry, got no choice. I don't keep spare jumpsuits in here. Since your undershirt is kind of bloody at the top, I should probably be keeping that here too. But the guards have a policy about inmates walking around without shirts. Anyway, I guess you're free to go. But I want to check on that in a few days, okay? Rusty screwdrivers are prone to infecting, just want to be sure."

Donut nodded, then paused. "How'd you know it was a rusty one?"

"Trust me. I know these things. Be careful out there, okay?"

"Uhm... Admiral Buttercrust? Can we not go to the library? Can we just go back to yard time?" Caboose asked quietly, fidgeting while they walked away from the infirmary.

"Okay."

Caboose continued to bounce around on the balls of his feet, but this time in a nervous way as opposed to the cheerful way he had been doing earlier. Every few seconds, he would glance at Donut and then look away again, frowning. Donut felt nervous, too, although that was mostly because O'Malley could jump out again at any moment.

"Uhm, Captain Twinkie? Are you going to be angry at me?"

"No? Why would I? You didn't do anything."

"That is right. I did not do anything. That is why you would be angry. So... can you shout at me or hit me or something and get it over with?"

Donut turned to face Caboose, who was still fidgeting and hopping from one foot to the other. "Caboose, I'm not going to shout at you. Okay? Stop fidgeting."

"You are sure? Church usually shouts at me about things. He shouts about everything, though. He usually stops once I do the eye thing that I used to do when I was in trouble with Mama. See?"

_Ack, puppy dog eyes. Urge to hug... rising..._

Donut raised his hands. "Uh... don't do that. Anyway, I told you before. I'm not Church, and not just because I don't have a goatee. I'm not going to shout at you just because you were a bit scared."

"But I am supposed to protect you. And I was this close-" Caboose moved his finger and thumb close together. "-to running away. That is not good."

"I don't mind, really! I probably would have run, if you'd been the one with O'Malley behind you."

"But you hurt O'Malley. You actually hurt O'Malley! That is like... like punching that big scary guy with the jaggy sword in that movie with all the fireworks! It was kind of cool. But I was supposed to be doing the hurting, because I was supposed to help you."

"Hey, if he hadn't been distracted by you, I would've never gotten the chance to punch him. I would have been totally screwed... perhaps literally... if you hadn't been there. Even if you didn't actually harm the guy."

Caboose crossed his arms, thinking. "So... I did not screw up... as much."

"Can we just say you didn't screw up and forget that ever happened? It wasn't a big deal or anything. Not like..." Donut shrugged, and started walking again. "It's fine. Can we forget about it? You said you were good at pretending."

"Not when O'Malley is involved," Caboose muttered, following him. "And I cannot forget, because you have the bandages covering the hurty place and I can see the bandages because you have no jacket to cover them. So I cannot forget until you have your jacket back..."

Caboose trailed off, and Donut heard him stop for a few seconds. Then he heard his footsteps speed up again, and Caboose caught up to him, now holding his own jacket. With little warning, he tossed it over Donut's head.

"Aaack! I can't see!" Donut yelped, waving his arms and trying to get the jacket off his head. "Get it off! It smells like old cheese!"

"Uh, I used to keep cheese in the pockets... but then it got all green and furry, and Church said it was no longer edible..."

"Gross."

"I cannot forget about what happened until I cannot see the bandages. And the only way not to see the bandages is for you to wear a jacket. And since you do not have a jacket at the moment, you can wear mine."

"No, no, no. I'm fine. Besides, it's too cold for you to be wandering around in just an undershirt."

"It is not that cold."

"Get it off, I still can't see!" Caboose tugged his jacket off Donut's head, but rather than remove it he just moved it so it was covering Donut's shoulders instead of his head.

"You have to put your arms through the sleeves."

"I don't wanna..." Donut half-whined. Caboose stared at him. _Crap, he's doing the look again..._ "Okay, okay. I'll wear your jacket. Just stop staring at me like that."

"Uh, don't put your hands in the pockets, though. I do not remember if I removed all the furry cheese from them."

Donut put the jacket on properly, albeit reluctantly. He had to admit he was a good deal warmer. Even if everything smelt like old cheese, and the sleeves were far too long. He tried pushing the sleeves back, only for them to fall over his hands again.

"Now I cannot see the bandages, and I can forget about the... the thing that happened."

"Cool. Uh... thanks. You know, for not running off earlier and for the jacket and everything."

Caboose scrunched his face up thoughtfully. "...Thanks?"

"Yeah. Thank you." Donut smiled at him. "I owe you one."

Caboose scuffed one of his feet against the ground. He had gone slightly pink.

"No, you do not. I did not really do anything." But he still looked a lot happier. He was smiling back, at least.

* * *

Doc had been cleaning up from Donut's visit to the infirmary when, as usual, O'Malley snuck up on him.

"Someone was bleeding up here," he said cheerfully. Doc jumped back, still holding Donut's bloody jacket.

"O'Malley! Don't sneak up- oh god, what happened to you?" Doc was too surprised even to apologize for possibly being offensive due to the use of the word 'god.' "You're covered in blood."

O'Malley shrugged, grinning. He was still holding his nose, which was no longer pouring blood but was clearly starting to bruise. "Covered in blood, yes. But you say that like it's surprising."

"It's surprising to see you covered in your own blood, at least. Sit down, sit down! I'll go get some more water..."

"Whose jacket is that?" O'Malley gazed at Donut's jacket, which Doc put on a nearby table. Doc looked back at him briefly.

"I suspect you already know." Doc padded back towards him once he'd filled a small bowl with water. "Now... you're not going to do anything violent if I try to fix you up, are you?"

O'Malley grinned up at him from the cot he was now sitting on. "Really, Doc. Do you believe that little in me. When have I ever done something violent?"

Doc raised his left hand. There were scars left from bite marks on the pointer finger. "Uh, the first time you were ever in here? Nearly bit my finger off when I was trying to give you your medication?"

"Don't recall it, personally." O'Malley rolled his eyes and raised his hand. "I won't do anything. I swear on my word as a surgeon."

"You killed so many patients that you qualify more as a butcher than a surgeon," Doc muttered, dipping a facecloth into the water.

"First of all, that's a lie. I never killed a patient on purpose. It would have gotten me fired, and I preferred to keep work and recreation separate. Secondly, you can't talk. You never even made it out of medical school. You're not even a real doctor." O'Malley snorted, then winced at the pain it caused in his nose.

"Shush!" Doc waved his hands. "Don't say that too loudly..."

O'Malley just kept grinning as Doc started wiping the blood away from his injured nose.

"Oh, that looks painful. How'd you do that?"

O'Malley shrugged. "I fell. The same excuse every inmate, with the exception of the particularly loud squealers, give you. What do you think?"

Doc sighed. "Guess I wasn't really expecting you to come clean or anything. It wouldn't—turn your head—it wouldn't be like you. If you told me the truth, I'd probably faint from shock."

"Oh, I tell the truth more than you think," O'Malley insisted. "What good is it to torture victims with lies? It's much more effective if it's true."

"Lovely," Doc muttered, still wiping the blood off O'Malley's face.

Normally O'Malley was rather twitchy when Doc tried to take care of him, though in most cases this involved trying to forcefeed him his medication, which Doc was always bad at. Right now he was still, though. He seemed calm as Doc wiped away the blood and carefully prodded at his nose to see if it felt broken. (Doc wasn't quite sure how to tell.)

Doc turned away to rinse the cloth he'd wiped the blood off with in the sink, before examining O'Malley's nose gain. "It doesn't seem to be broken... just very bruised. It's going to go a very nice purple colour for a while, but apart from some difficulties with breathing it should be fine. Just come back if it swells or gets infected or... whatever happens with broken can go."

O'Malley stretched back on the cot, grinning up at Doc. "I don't feel like leaving."

"Don't be difficult."

"But I like it here. The smell of blood is still in the air. I want to stay for a while."

Doc groaned. "Not this again..."

"It won't hurt anybody," O'Malley purred. Doc removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

"Of all the inmates..." Doc shrugged. "Fine. At least this way I know you're not hurting anybody. But you're leaving right after medication time."

"Of course I will." O'Malley rolled onto his stomach, grin stretching even wider. "When have I ever caused you trouble?"


	24. Chapter 24: Just Like Candy

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Just Like Candy**

"Hey, Donut. 'Bout time, where'd you run off to?" Grif paused. "...Why are you wearing Caboose's jacket? Ah, never mind that now... sit down, I got something for you."

Once Donut had sat down next to him, Grif passed him a plastic cup that was normally used to hold orange juice. The liquid inside, however, was certainly not orange juice. It smelt fruity and was a similar colour, but Donut could clearly smell the alcohol.

"Let me guess. Pruno?"

"Hell yes." Grif was holding a cup as well. So was Simmons, although he looked a bit more disapproving.

"Grif, Donut's not even of legal drinking age," Simmons muttered.

"Oh, it's illegal for any of us to drink in here," Grif scoffed. "Like it's gonna matter that he's only twenty. Anyway... I'm probably gonna trade most of this stuff with other inmates, but we gotta enjoy some of it. Just don't look too guilty and the guards will assume we're drinking orange juice."

"I can't believe we're getting drunk in the yard. This is so stupid."

"Hey, as long as Sarge doesn't see, they won't bother checking. If they bothered to check every inmate that might be making or drinking pruno, they'd never have time to do anything else. They only check it out if the inmates do something to advertise the fact that they're drunk." Grif raised his cup a little. "To lazy guards, huh?"

Simmons shrugged and took a sip. Donut looked down at the alcohol before doing the same. It actually tasted less repulsive than he had originally assumed. It wasn't fantastic, but it sure beat the cheap orange juice that was usually served.

"You like it? You can drink it without getting worried, there's not enough there to get you drunk unless you're a real lightweight," Grif assured him. "I'm not that dumb, if we started stumbling around obviously drunk off our asses then they'd definitely call us out on it. Save being that drunk for when we're stuck in our cells." Grif took another gulp and sighed happily. "Ah, alcohol. The possible liver cancer is totally worth it."

Simmons shook his head, but kept drinking anyway.

"So, what's up with you wearing Caboose's jacket? Because that's totally gay. That's like how girls wear their boyfriend's sport jackets."

Donut pulled back the collar of Caboose's jacket, so Grif and Simmons could see the bandages.

"O'Malley," Donut muttered. Simmons put down his drink quickly, face thoughtful. Then he swore.

"Fuck! Wyoming!"

"What's up with you?" Grif asked.

"I asked Wyoming about O'Malley. He must have realised Donut told us. Fuck..." Simmons closed his eyes and rested his forehead against his knees. "That was a fucking stupid thing to do, wasn't it?"

"You asked him? Did he actually say anything? Like, what O'Malley looks like or anything?" Donut asked curiously. Simmons shook his head.

"Didn't say a thing except that O'Malley was 'just another inmate.'"

Donut laughed bitterly. "Just another inmate? No way. Not if it's routine to attack inmates with screwdrivers."

"Definitely not. Most guys wouldn't bother unless another inmate 'disrespected' them. Why take the chance of losing parole, most guys just want to do their time and get out. Either O'Malley's in here for life, he doesn't give a shit about when he gets out... or maybe he's just nuts."

"Or all three," Grif added. "Bad luck getting someone like that on your back. You know what you need to ease the pain? More pruno."

"Grif, alcohol isn't the answer to everything!"

"That's a lie and you know it."

* * *

The time that O'Malley got the most difficult was medication time.

"Open your mouth."

O'Malley kept his mouth clammed shut, despite Doc's insistence.

"Come on. If you don't take your meds when told, I'll have to get one of the guards to help me. And you know I hate doing that. Can't you just take them in a non-violent way?"

O'Malley grinned and shifted away from him, still not opening his mouth. Doc gave him a disapproving look.

"Come on. One way or another, you'll have to take the pills. Please?"

O'Malley jumped off the bunk and edged away from Doc. Whatever calmness had been left from earlier had clearly worn off.

"No fun at all. You're going to have to make a better deal than that, 'Doc.'" O'Malley stressed the word 'Doc,' at the same time sketching quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "I don't want to take my medication. You do want me to take my medication. Quite the dilemma."

"I have other patients I need to deliver medication to, O'Malley. Can't you just take them with no fuss? Even just for today?" Doc tried to catch O'Malley, but O'Malley kept shifting away. He also had no problems with climbing over the cots and tables. It was making quite a mess.

"Oh, the amount of times you've asked that. Just for today, just for today. But it's never just for today, is it? I've been taking those pieces of plastic for the last three years. That's a lot more than 'just today.'" O'Malley was crouching behind the other cot, staring over it at Doc.

"Come on!" Doc whined. "This isn't funny!"

"You can think of a better way to get them to me than violence, can't you? Think about it and get back to me. I'll just be sitting here while you think about it. Far away from those colourful little tablets."

"I told you, I call the guards for help if I can't talk you into it. They always end up smashing you in the face when I do that, and you don't want that to happen a second time today."

"Indeed. They can be so cruel," O'Malley mused.

"Please just take them?" Doc held out the small cup filled with colourful tablets. O'Malley eyed them distastefully. Then he grinned, climbing back onto the cot.

"I'll consider it," he said, giggling a little as he reached out for the cup. Doc relaxed a little as he handed them over. Mistake. As soon as they were in O'Malley's hand, O'Malley jumped off the cot at Doc, tackling him to the ground.

"You let your guard down," O'Malley purred, grinning down at him.

"Get off!"

"Let me think about—no." O'Malley was still holding the little cup of medicine, and he waved them in Doc's face. Doc's glasses had been knocked off when O'Malley tackled him, so all he could see was a blur of colour. "There's so many things I could do with this little cup. Maybe you'd like to try them, hm? See how the world looks like when everything is dulled by these little plastic tablets." O'Malley leaned in further, so his face was only inches from Doc. Doc could see his narrowed eyes, and the twisted scowl that had replaced his usual grin. "It's a miserable, boring way to view the world. Especially when you don't need the stupid things in the first place."

"O'Malley, you have to take your medication. You need it," Doc said, fighting to keep his voice calm. Which was difficult, considering O'Malley was straddling him and waving medicine in his face.

"Maybe I'll believe you once you actually get a medical degree. And necessary for what? Afraid I might actually be able to think straight, for once?" O'Malley started grinning again, a horrible malicious smile even by his standards. "Afraid about how 'uncontrollable' I'd be without them?" O'Malley tapped the plastic cup again. "Mind control in a pretty wrapping. Look at the pretty colours. They're just like candy."

Just like candy. The words were familiar. Doc had used a variation of them himself, when trying to convince other inmates to take their medication. Don't worry, these are just like candy. Pretty and colourful candy. He'd used the phrase on O'Malley before, now O'Malley was throwing it back in his face.

"Open your mouth."

Doc shook his head. If he wasn't set against violence so much, he would have attempted to shove O'Malley off him. But even that violated his pacifist nature. Even if he tried, it wouldn't have done much good. O'Malley was stronger than he was.

That was not to say that Doc didn't struggle when O'Malley pinched his nose, waiting for when Doc would have to open his mouth to breathe. Doc did struggle then, trying to squirm away from O'Malley without actually doing anything that could be classified as violent.

"You're going blue," O'Malley observed. "Interesting. So, how long can you hold your breath for? You know, thrashing around like that is going to shorten the time drastically. Not that I object to watching you thrash around, of course. Better that way."

Doc shook his head, trying to get O'Malley to let go, but O'Malley just grinned and kept his grip. It wasn't long before he opened his mouth for air. O'Malley immediately tipped the medicine into Doc's mouth, and then clapped a hand over it, although he let go of Doc's nose at the same time so he could breathe again.

"I can wait all day, you know," O'Malley purred. "I'll behave once you swallow the medication. I might even take the meds myself. I'm just sharing them with you. Sharing is a good thing, right? I remember that talk you gave about sharing."

"Stop throwing everything I say back in my face!" Of course, since Doc's mouth was covered, all that came out was a bunch of upset noises. O'Malley just grinned.

"Yes, get angry at me if it makes you feel better." The grin got wider. "I know this is making me feel better. After all... there's just something about you panicking and thrashing under me that just... completes the day. Don't you think so?" Even though Doc couldn't see very well without his glasses, he could certainly feel O'Malley curling his fingers in Doc's hair, almost lovingly.

That scared Doc. O'Malley being creepily affectionate was a lot scarier than him being violent.

It was at that point the infirmary door slammed open, and someone pulled O'Malley off Doc. As Doc sat up, feeling around for his glasses, he heard Tex's voice.

"The hell were you doing, O'Malley? You're really pushing it! You just trying to figure out more ways to get in trouble? Is stabbing inmates just not good enough for you anymore?" Each question was punctuated by the sound of Tex's nightstick colliding with some part of O'Malley. Once Doc finally located his glasses and put them on, Tex had O'Malley in a headlock. "Get his medication, Doc."

Doc nodded, and tried climbing to his feet. It took a few goes. He was shaking badly. He stumbled over to where he kept all the medicine, quickly scooped out some more of O'Malley's usual medication and handedit over to Tex. After a quick struggle, in which O'Malley attempted to bite Tex's fingers off, she managed to shove the tablets down his throat.

"Right. I don't know what you were doing to Doc, but it was clearly some form of assault. You're going back into solitary. Sick bastard." Tex pushed O'Malley towards the door, looking back at Doc. "I'll return in a few minutes to help you get the medication to the other inmates."

"It wasn't assault. We were sharing," O'Malley laughed as he was pushed out of the room.

As soon as Tex left, Doc slumped against the wall. He spat the medication out, tossing the tablets into the bin. He was still shaking. O'Malley normally got violent when medication time came around, but never like that. Doc wasn't sure what O'Malley had been up to, but it had terrified him. Especially since he didn't know what was going through O'Malley's head. Whether he was actually trying to be affectionate or just messing with him.

Doc wasn't sure which would scare him more.


	25. Chapter 25: Favourites

**A/N: Updates are slow at the moment, as I have a large amount of assignments to complete. Stupid semester. But procrastination caused me to complete editing a few chapters today. :D  
**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Favourites**

"You are fucking surprising, you know that?"

Donut groaned and waved his hand, his forehead resting against the table. "Not so loud," he grumbled at Church, who was looking down at him while holding his breakfast tray.

Pruno might taste okay, and it sure helped pass the time... but it also caused the worst hangover Donut had ever had the misfortune to experience in his short drinking career. Grif and Simmons had fared a little better than him, Simmons because he hadn't drunk as much as the other two, and Grif because... Donut had no idea why, since Grif had easily drunk the most. Even so, Simmons was massaging his forehead between bites and Grif had his head resting on his arms, snoring like a malfunctioning vacuum cleaner.

Church looked between the three of them. "You all look like fucking shit. How much did you drink?"

"Too much," Simmons replied, not removing his fingers from his forehead. "If this is how bad regular pruno feels, I dread the day Grif finally manages to make 'white lightning.' Whatever that is. Sounds painful."

"Duuude. He's making white lightning?" Tucker plopped down into his seat, grinning. "Tell him I'll buy shots of that once he manages it, that stuff is heaven in a fucking tumbler."

Church dropped into his seat and purposefully slammed his tray down as loudly as possible, causing Donut and Simmons to make vague noises of protest.

"Captain Cheesecake! You look very sick," Caboose said, poking him carefully. Donut winced when Caboose spoke. Was his voice always that loud?

"Not sick. Just hungover. Don't talk so loudly," Donut said, his voice muffled by the table.

"Okay!"

Donut was set on trying to block out any sound, at least until his head stopped feeling like it was going to explode, but Church wouldn't let that be.

"I figured that you were a pussy, you know. I mean, you still are... just not as much."

"Wha?" Donut lifted his head up, squinting at how bright the room was. Church was leaning back on his chair, looking at Donut with amusement.

"You fought back against O'Malley, right? Headbutted him right in the face. That takes fucking balls, especially when he's waving his stupid screwdriver around."

Once this had processed through Donut's hungover brain, Donut turned to Caboose.

"You told them, didn't you? I told you to forget about it."

Caboose looked at the ceiling. "Forget about what?" he said evasively.

"It was a fluke," Donut mumbled, resting his face back on the table. "He was distracted."

"Even so... you're gonna be in deep shit," Tucker said. He didn't look displeased about it, though. That didn't surprise Donut at this point.

"Yeah, how?" Donut asked, propping his head on his hands in an effort to pay attention.

"You fought back. That's a fucking mistake where O'Malley is concerned," Church said. "Now he's gonna be all interested and shit. If his victims don't struggle, O'Malley gets bored quickly and moves onto some other target." Church frowned and leant back further on his chair. "But you? You just had fight back."

"Of course! What should I have done? Just bent over?" Donut protested.

"It would have been over a lot quicker. Trust me. I've seen him work on victims before." Church pointed his bread roll at Donut. "Let me get this clear. I hate you. But there are very few people that deserve to have O'Malley stuck on their every movement."

"Who the hell is O'Malley, anyway?" Grif groaned, apparently now awake despite his face still being buried in his arms. "Never heard of him. He sounds like an asshole, though."

"He avoids pestering huge amounts of people. He just pays special attention to a few. At the moment, one of those people is probably Dye-Job there."

Donut pouted, one hand covering his bleached hair. "Can you point him out? I want to know what he looks like, so it'll be harder for him to sneak up on me constantly."

Church glanced around the room quickly. "Can't see him. He likes standing behind people so they don't see him. Once someone sees his face and realises he's a crazy psychopath... if struggling against him is like writing 'torture victim' on your forehead, mixing that with seeing his face is like putting a neon sign above your head. There's a fucking good chance you've already met him and just not realised it." Church shrugged. "He likes crawling under the radar."

"Couldn't you just point him out without him realising?"

"Maybe. But he's not even in the room at the moment. Knowing him, he was probably shoved in solitary again." Church scowled. "Probably was pestering one of his 'favourites' again. Sick bastard."

"Can we talk about something else?" Caboose said quietly, prodding at his food. Church sighed, removing a piece of paper from his pocket.

"Look, if you don't want to listen then go take this note to Tex. A different guard tries to take it off you, eat it. Try to be fucking discreet about it, okay?"

"I can do that. ...What does 'discreet' mean?"

"Just go."

Church waited until Caboose was out of earshot before saying, "He tormented Caboose for months. Once Caboose lashed out at him and broke his arm, and after that O'Malley was even worse towards him. Once Caboose got to the point where he turned into a quivering wreck whenever O'Malley was around... well, that's when O'Malley got bored."

"Not that he needed to do much. Caboose was unstable to begin with. That crazy bastard," Tucker muttered. "Just had to push the right buttons."

"As for Tex... well, they talked once on the outside. Maybe that's why he keeps going after her, but Tex is tough enough to handle whatever he throws at her. It's not like he can do much. She just throws him in solitary when he gets annoying. Still, he keeps going after her because he hasn't found a way to crack her. He probably won't, Tex is the toughest bitch I've ever met."

"And yet you tapped that," Tucker said, grinning. "You and your fetish for tough, angry chicks."

"Yeah, it's—I mean, no. No fetish. Shut up. That's not the point here! My point is..." Church pointed his roll at Donut again. "If you want to survive prison with your sanity intact, don't give O'Malley any reason to choose you as a 'favourite.'"

Donut nodded. "Alright. But... what do I do if he attacks me again?"

Church shrugged. "I don't fucking know. For the long run, the best thing would probably be to not struggle and just get it over with."

Simmons drummed his fingers lightly on the table, causing Grif to groan in protest at the noise. "So, O'Malley stabbing you... was that an act of 'favouritism.' too?" he questioned. Church snorted.

"Yeah, right. I'm the furthest from a 'favourite' you could get. He just hates me. And I hate him, so it fucking works."

* * *

"You supply shivs and junk, don't you?"

Wyoming looked up at Tucker, who was shifting nervously.

"Depends on who is asking. Your friend wouldn't be thinking about snitching to the guards about that, would he?"

"No way, man. Church isn't stupid, if your business went down there'd be a lot of angry people. He'd have to waste way too much blackmail material to stop them from killing him." Tucker scraped his foot against the ground, glancing back at Church. "He needs another supply of cigarettes, by the way. Said he'd pay with laundry money."

"Fair enough, tell him the usual price applies. But why the shiv question? I don't hand out shivs to any old chum who comes by asking about them."

"I know, but I kind of need one. I need something sharp and I don't want to make one on my own, that shit gets boring."

"Why?"

"Does it matter?"

"I don't support prison violence, at least not from people I'm not very friendly with. You could be planning to harpoon a friend of mine, old chap. And I don't stand for that."

"If it makes you feel better, I don't plan on attacking anyone with it unless they attack me first. I'm just feeling a little nervous, is all."

"Ah." Wyoming raised an eyebrow. "This wouldn't have to do with that little incident with the blond idiot, would it? Because I doubt a screwdriver would do much good against that giant. He'd crush your head in before you could stab him enough to let you go."

"I know, but he's fucking crazy. And if Caboose attacks me again and I have no weapon, he'll fucking crush me. I can't talk my way out where he's concerned, he's too thick to listen." Tucker crossed his arms impatiently. "Will you supply one or not?"

"It'll cost a fair bit of laundry money, but certainly. It'll take a month or so."

"Cool. Uh, don't mention this to Church. I don't want him to think I'm going all crazy paranoid and everything."

"Certainly. And tell him I'll be able to supply his cigarettes within a week."

"It takes him a week to get his supplies and me a month? Fucking bullshit, dude."

* * *

"Church! I have the reply note thing from Tex!"

"That took forever," Church grumbled. "I asked you to find her at breakfast. It's past fucking lunch."

"Yes. She was not in the eating place, so I had to look around. But I did not ask the guards. I did ask Mister York what discreet meant, and then I did not ask anything else. Tex wrote this for you." Caboose held out the note, looking proud.

"Yeah, whatever. Pass it here." Church tugged the note out of Caboose's hand and glanced over it. "Let's see..." There wasn't much worth mentioning on the note. Mostly that O'Malley had been acting up again and was under suspicion of attacking Donut, but that there'd been no weapons in his cell and they had no other proof. There was also some mentions about a couple of smugglers being transferred to the prison, but nothing besides that.

"Wyoming says he'll have the cigarettes in a week," Tucker said, strolling over and sitting down, making sure to stay just out of reaching distance of Caboose. Caboose was still standing, rocking back and forth on his feet and looking at Church.

"What do you want, a cookie?" Church asked him, as he passed the note over to Tucker.

"I did not know they had cookies in prison."

"They don't. It's a fucking metaphor or something. Just sit down and stop staring at me."

"Oh. Okay." Caboose sat down, pulling his knees to his chest and huddling into a ball. "It is very cold."

"That's because you gave your jacket to Dye-Job. Idiot," Church muttered. "Don't bitch about the cold if you're gonna do stupid things like be nice to people. That won't get you anywhere. You have to be more of an asshole if you're ever gonna do something besides be a fuckup."

"He's already an asshole," Tucker said under his breath. "Don't encourage him, Church."

Caboose climbed to his feet again, glaring venomously at Tucker. "Hippo-kite."

"Er... what?"

"You are a hippo-kite. And I do not talk to hippo-kites. I am going to talk to General Biscuit."

Once Caboose had left, Tucker glanced sideways at Church. "What the fuck is a hippo-kite?"

"I think he means hypocrite. He thinks you're an asshole."

"Oh! Alright, then."

Church watched Caboose cross the yard to where Donut, Grif and Simmons were sitting. Caboose looked happier once he started talking to Donut.

"How'd Dye-Job get Caboose to like him so quickly?"

"Fuck if I know."

Church scratched his goatee absentmindedly. "Hm... the way things are going, he might end up taking over the 'Best Friend' position. That's a fucking scary thought."

Tucker shuddered. "Oh yeah. That would suck. You sure you don't want to get Donut killed? If Caboose ends up on his side instead of ours, getting Donut killed might be the only way to stop us from getting killed. Probably depends on how much Donut dislikes us."

"I don't think it'll come to that. Not any time soon. But it took me fucking six months to get Caboose to like me at all. Yeah, he's gotten more friendly since then, but still... Donut managed it in, what, two days?"

"Scary. Maybe being nice does get you somewhere."

"Too much effort, though."

"True, that."


	26. Chapter 26: Miller

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Miller**

"Books!"

Even with O'Malley locked in solitary, it was three days before Caboose was convinced that O'Malley wouldn't be lurking around the hallways. Once he was sure, however, he immediately dragged Donut there.

The library, for want of a better term, was a tiny little room with the books crammed onto a few shelves. There was a guard inside the room, one that Donut didn't recognise, and an inmate who was sorting books. Caboose was kneeling beside one of the lower shelves, tilting his head like he was trying to read the spines. Or at least trying to guess which would have the most pretty pictures.

"Admiral Shortbread, what does that say?"

Donut tilted his head. "Uh... Soap Carving For Beginners. Ooh, I'll grab that if you don't want it, I need something to do."

Caboose handed it over to him before looking some more. Eventually, he removed a book on football. He turned it around a couple of times before flipping it open. Then he held it sideways, eyes squinted.

"I did not know they had naked ladies in football," he said slowly. "Especially not naked cowboy ladies."

Donut tugged the book out of Caboose's hands, and a porn magazine fell out of the pages. Donut looked down at it, nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Ew, gross."

The inmate stacking books looked up and waved his hands downwards.

"Don't bring stuff like that in here, kid. Guards won't approve, and I don't want any write-ups for letting that in here," he said gruffly. Donut picked it up like it was diseased.

"I didn't bring it in, it was in there already."

"Hmph. One of the others was probably using that football book to disguise what he was reading out in the yard. Forgot to take it out. Dumbass. Just hand it here, I'll take care of it." Donut handed it over quickly, and the inmate quickly turned it over and glanced at the cover before shoving it in his pocket. "Eh, no point in wasting it." The inmate looked over Donut's shoulder at Caboose, who was gazing at the books on another shelf. "Er, keep an eye on Caboose. Don't want him knocking over the shelves or something aga-"

Crash.

"Not my fault! Shelf was in the way!"

The inmate sighed.

"Every time..." He started gathering the books that had been knocked off the shelf. "Why'd they place me in charge of the damn library..."

"I will help the shelf stand up again!"

"No, Caboose, just stand there. You know. Far away from me."

"Okay! Private Biscuit, what's this say?" Caboose waved him over, away from the inmate, before speaking again. "That is Miller. He does not get along with Church," he said, speaking in almost a whisper.

"Did Church try to blackmail him or something?"

"No. It was Tucker's fault. Miller had a cellmate called Joannes, and he died after Tucker talked to him. There was blood everywhere, and it was messy and gross. And he thinks Church told Tucker to do what he did. So now he is very mad at Church and Tucker. Some of his friends beat up Tucker once. I saw them." Caboose held up another book. "What's this about? Does it have wizards?"

"That's about ghosts, not magicians. So, you saw them hitting Tucker and you didn't do anything?"

"No."

"Doesn't Church get annoyed about Tucker getting hurt?"

"Church did not know at the time. And what he does not know does not matter to him." Caboose lowered his voice even more. "He found out, though. I think Andy told him."

Donut looked back at Miller, who was pushing the shelving back up. "And what does that mean?"

"When Church is not happy, bad things happen to the people he is not happy with. But Tucker cannot do anything to Miller, because he won't listen to him. And Church says I cannot do anything too hurty to them, unless they do something worse."

"So... what are they going to do?"

I do not know. Church and Tucker do not tell me things. And the talking can get very boring. Is this book about wizards?"

* * *

"Nothing. I can't dig up any information," Tucker said moodily. "I tried conning Miller's friends out of information, none of them let anything slip. Not after Joannes. I even searched Miller's cell. Nothing."

"Nothing at all?"

"Except a couple of porn magazines, nothing. Not enough to get him in serious trouble."

Church frowned at the sky. "Damn it. Why must murdering people be against the law?"

"I'm sure there's other ways. We'll get them somehow. No-one fucks with us and gets away with it, right?"

"Damn right, they don't. But, despite that you just let them pick on you? The hell, Tucker?"

"Pssh. It takes more than those sissies to get me down." Tucker rubbed his side. Last time Miller's friends had got him it had been bruised for ages, although it'd healed now. "I got at least one of them pretty good. Awesome black eye. Besides, what was I supposed to do about it? You were in the infirmary, and it's not like Caboose would help unless you ordered him to."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me when I got out, either. You're a fucking idiot, man."

"So you say. But, getting back to the situation..." Tucker scraped his shoe against the ground, kicking the occasional pebble aside. "Miller hasn't hid anything bad in his cell... but that doesn't mean we can't throw something bad in there." Tucker tapped his foot against the ground a few times, one hand moving up to touch his own shoulder. "Screwdriver. What did O'Malley do with the screwdriver he used to attack Donut? Didn't Tex say no screwdriver was found on him?"

"Yeah. Must have hid it somewhere."

"So, technically, they can't prove O'Malley attacked Donut. Which means another inmate could have done it. So." Tucker grinned. "We either find O'Malley's screwdriver or a new one, leave it in Miller's cell. Tip off the guards that someone else is hiding something in their cells. They'll do a cell check, and they'll catch Miller with a screwdriver covered in blood. He'll get locked in solitary for ages. Give him some time to reflect on how much he should not fuck with us."

"Sneaky. But won't it just make them angrier?"

"Won't doing anything make them angry?"

"Yeah, but especially framing. That's pretty close to snitching."

"Church, you're already a snitch. What more can you do?"

"Hey! Blackmailer, alright? Not a snitch." Church stretched his arms out and yawned. "Alright. Framing it is. Did I ever tell you you're a sneaky asshole?"

Tucker's mouth twisted into a half-smile. "You've told me before, but you know I love compliments like that."

"I sure fucking do."

* * *

Once Caboose had finally located a book with wizards in it (the process of which was essentially pulling out every book he could find and asking Donut if it was about wizards) he insisted that he had to take it back to his cell, because the last time he had taken a book into the yard he had lost it.

When Donut passed his own cell, listening to Caboose babble about wizards and about how his mama used to read to him, he saw that someone had left an orange jacket on the bed. Donut entered his cell and picked it up, noting the stitching along the shoulder. He picked it up and jogged after Caboose, who hadn't actually noticed Donut had momentarily left.

"Hey, Caboose. Slow down. I can give your jacket back, now." Donut slipped off the jacket (which wasn't hard, with it being several sizes too big) and handed it back to Caboose before pulling his own jacket on again.

"That is good. I was very cold, especially when sitting on the concrete." Caboose pulled his jacket back on, before pausing and sniffing at the collar. "...Smells fruity."

"Grif's pruno. The smell is getting everywhere." Caboose entered his cell and put the book down on the cot. Donut took a step in almost stumbled back from the stench that filled the cell. It smelt like rotting meat.

"Oh god, what is that?"

"What is... oh. Nothing?" Caboose shifted from one foot to the other, glancing at the footlocker. Donut looked at it, then looked back at Caboose.

"What's in there? Whatever it is, it smells like something died."

"It did not die. It fell over."

"Caboose, seriously. What's in there?"

Caboose hesitated, before reaching over and opening the footlocker.

"Margretta."

Donut looked inside and immediately stepped back, his hands now covering his mouth. "Oh god. Is that the same pigeon you tried to pat a couple of months ago? That's... that is... ergh, I feel like I'm going to throw up." Donut backed out of the cell quickly. "I'll just wait out here!"

"Um... it is not the same pigeon. It is a different one that I tried to keep as a pet when you and Church were not around." Caboose followed Donut out, once he had closed the footlocker. "I needed something to talk to. Even if Margretta is always sleeping. And falling apart. But she is better to talk to than Tucker. Because Tucker is a stupid hippo-kite."

"...You were talking to a dead pigeon."

"Not a dead pigeon, Muffin Man.A sleeping, falling apart pigeon. I would not talk to a dead pigeon. That would be crazy."

"Yeah. Yeah, it would be," Donut said faintly.

"The smell does get very smelly, though." Caboose tugged on Donut's sleeve. "Erm, Commander Poppinfresh... you can read, right?"

"Yeah? I just read, like, a hundred book titles to you."

"Right... uh... canyoureadthebooktometomorro w?" Caboose said quickly.

"What?"

"Can you read the book to me? I asked Church once but he just asked if I thought he was my mother. Which is a silly question. Church cannot be my mother because he is a guy. Anyway... can you read to me tomorrow? Pleeeeeease?"

Even if Donut had wanted to resist, Caboose had switched on the puppy dog eyes again.

"Hey, you don't have to do the eye thing. Of course I will."

"Yay!" Before Donut could move, Caboose jumped forward and hugged him tightly. It was a painful experience. "Thank you!"

"Ow, ow, ow!"

Luckily, Donut escaped the hug with only a very strong ache, like he's just been hit by a non-lethal bulldozer.


	27. Chapter 27: Framed

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Framed**

People can be so predictable. Even crazy ones like O'Malley.

Not that O'Malley had much of a choice, in this case. The only place that O'Malley could have hidden the screwdriver between where he had attacked Donut and the infirmary was the closet where they kept all the spare clothes. Tucker wondered briefly why no-one ever locked that closet. Probably because there wasn't really much to steal. Seriously, who would steal jackets, socks or underwear? Well, there was always someone.

It had just been a matter of rifling through the shelves while Church stood outside, keeping a watch out for the guards. But, again, who would be guarding a room filled with nothing but clothes? There weren't that many guards as it was, and they were generally guarding... well, the inmates. Most were stationed out in the yard, or wherever else inmates generally hung out. The library, or pacing the cell block and keeping an eye out on the inmates who chose to stay in their cells.

Tucker eventually poked Church in the back.

"Got it. He didn't even hide it that well, he just threw it into a pile of socks," Tucker said, laughing. He held up the screwdriver, still covered in dried blood. "Should we hide it in there now?"

"Why the fuck not? The sooner Miller is dealt with, the better," Church said.

It wasn't that far back to the cell block, and at this time of the day most of the inmates were out in the yard. There were a few around, most of them sitting in their cells reading, talking or engaging in whatever activity they could perform in their cell. Guards paced around, but most of them didn't keep track on which inmates lived in what cells. They wouldn't notice if Church or Tucker slipped into someone else's cell, as long as they were casual about it.

"Anyone looking?" Tucker muttered, as they walked towards Miller's cell. Church glanced around, trying his best to look casual.

"Not that I can see. There's a guy wandering around up there, but he's not actually looking at us."

"Alright. Just start humming if someone is looking at you while I'm in there. Then I'll stay until you stop."

"Humming? I don't want to fucking hum."

"Would you rather sing?"

"Humming is fine."

"Damn. And I was looking forward to hearing you sing." Tucker pulled a face before slipping into Miller's cell. Church passed by and stopped a couple of cells down, tapping his fingers impatiently. When one of the inmates left his cell on the floor above, briefly looking downwards at him, Church started humming tunelessly. As soon as the inmate had walked far enough so that he couldn't see them, Church stopped. Tucker left the cell, grinning.

"Dude, you are totally tune-deaf."

"Shut up. So, you planted it?"

"Nah, I just walked into his cell, stood there for a while and then left. Duh. Of course I planted it. Let's go tip off the guards. Reckon we should tip off Tex, or a different guard?"

"Tex would know it was O'Malley's screwdriver. Let's tip off York, he won't ask as many questions. And he'll probably drag Wash along when they check out the cells. Wash is such a hard-ass, so that'll get Miller a longer punishment."

"Fuck yeah." Tucker scratched his hair, mouth twisted in his usual half-smile. "I'd feel guilty, but really... it's his fault. Shouldn't have been blaming me for Joannes in the first place. If the guy died that easily, he probably wasn't going to survive long anyway. Fuck, I wasn't even trying to make him do that."

"So you say. But at least half of everything you say is a lie."

"Uh, so not true. A third of it, maybe. And I don't lie to you, there'd be no point. The hell am I gonna get out of that?"

"So, you're not a liar. Sure, Tucker. Suuuuure."

"Fuck off," Tucker replied amiably.

"Bastard."

"Asshole."

* * *

O'Malley was practically bouncing off the walls in his tiny cell. He could see through the little gap they pushed food through, but there was nothing out there. Not even anyone to torture in the cell across from his, or on either side. Must be a slow week. The only time they opened the door was to force him to take his medication.

Whenever O'Malley wasn't pacing around his cell, he spent most of it staring through that flap. Waiting for someone—anyone—to walk by. Although he would have prefered Tex or Doc. Especially Doc. The days felt almost empty without scaring the hell out of that pussyfest. But Doc never delivered his medication to him. He was probably scared, after the force-feeding and straddling their last meeting had entailed. Instead, guards generally brought the medication to him.

O'Malley sighed, stretched out on the floor and gazing through the flap. Solitary was the worst. If only he was allowed a cellmate, but the guards weren't stupid enough to lock someone in with him.

He heard the door swing open, and he could hear footsteps. He recognised the footsteps. He'd heard Tex walk down there so many times in the last three years that he had her footsteps memorized.

"Coming to visit me, Tex? So thoughtful of you," O'Malley laughed. From his narrow view, he could only see her feet. He heard the door unlock, and he scrambled backwards as it swung open. Tex was holding his medication, as well as a tray of food. She put down the tray of food before taking a step towards him.

"My dear Tex, must you force those things down my throat again? It's quite painful. Both physically and emotionally. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

"Yeah, like you actually have feelings," Tex muttered, taking her nightstick out.

"Oh, that was harsh. Harsh. How could you be so cold? And we've known each other for so long." O'Malley edged further away from him. "I thought we were friends," he added mockingly. Tex responded only by smacking him in the gut with her nightstick.

The everyday struggle to get O'Malley to take his pills always ended the same way. With O'Malley lying on the floor. Pills forcibly swallowed and a few new bruises for his effort. His face was a mass of purple bruising by now. He could never manage much resistance against Tex, but he usually left her with a few bite marks on her fingers.

As Tex stepped over him, sliding the food tray towards him with her foot, O'Malley rolled onto his back and grinned at her.

Why do you hate me so, Tex? Is it because I made you choose between two things you valued? That was ten years ago, are you still upset about it? It wasn't as if I forced you to choose the law over a blackmailing smuggler you just happened to be in the pants of—"

Tex turned back towards him and kicked him hard in the stomach, before slamming and locking the cell door behind her. Leaving O'Malley on the ground, laughing and wheezing from lack of breath at the same time.

The beatings were totally worth it, even for just a moment of bringing back old memories. Old memories of lives he had helped fuck up.

Ignoring his food, O'Malley quickly went back to pacing the cell. Even though he could survive on those little moments of emotional torture, it was nothing compared to having someone there. Torturing people was the only time he felt truly alive.

* * *

"He was what?"

"I didn't see him doing anything, but I saw Church near your cell. He was humming. Horribly. Thought it would be best to give you a heads up, you know?"

"The hell would he be doing near my cell? Was Tucker with him?"

"Didn't see him, but I couldn't actually see your cell from where I was standing..."

Not even half an hour after Church and Tucker had left Miller's cell, Miller was searching his own cell from top to bottom. The inmate who had been wandering the cell block, a man named Jenkins, was standing just outside the cell, shuffling his feet.

"Oh, son of a bitch," Miller muttered, as he felt the underside of his cot and found the screwdriver taped there. He pulled it out, studying it carefully. "Bastards. To sink this low..."

"Well, they are criminals..." Jenkins suggested helpfully. Miller turned the screwdriver over in his hands absentmindedly, before grinning.

"They messed with the wrong man." He held the screwdriver out to Jenkins. "You know where Church's cell is, right?"

"Uh, sort of... the area where all the murderers who do laundry are?"

"It'll be the cell with no sentimental items or any of that claptrap. Leave the screwdriver there. I have a strong feeling we'll be getting our cells checked later today."

"Ohh... yeah, got it!"

Jenkins hurried towards the section of cells, wrinkling his nose at the strange smells. That section of the prison sure smelt fruity. Someone had been making pruno, obviously. The inmate glanced at some of the cells in the area. Most had photos inside them, or childish sketches taped to the walls. A couple of cells down from the cell that smelt the most strongly like pruno, however...

This cell that was clearly occupied, as the cot actually had sheets on it. The room smelt mildly like perfumed water, but it didn't quite cover up the smell of old vomit. More importantly, there were no personal possessions lying around. Jenkins, too focused on this detail, didn't notice that he was standing on the 'Red' side of the cell block.

Jenkins quickly taped the screwdriver to the underside of the cot before hurrying back to Miller, unaware that he had planted the screwdriver in the wrong cell.


	28. Chapter 28: Cell Search

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Cell Search**

"Hey, Simmons? Is it possible to buy soap that isn't that ugly grey colour here?" Donut called from his cell. He was lying on his cot, turning the pages of the book on soap carving.

"I think so. Ask Wyoming," Simmons replied. He was lounging around reading as well, although his was one of his technobabble-filled science books.

A stream of swearing came from Grif's cell.

"Toilet's not flushing! Fucker!"

Simmons grunted in reply, turning the page of his book. Grif kicked the bowl angrily.

"Come on, you fucking..."

With a loud creak, the doors at the end of the cell block swung open. Simmons climbed to his feet and looked through his bars at the doors towards the source of the noise.

"Shit, they're searching cells," he whispered.

"What? Aw, you gotta be fucking kidding me..." Grif looked down at the cup of pruno he was holding, and quickly poured it down the toilet. "Oh shit, it's still not flushing... son of a bitch."

Simmons sighed and sat back down on his bunk. "I told you that stuff would get you in trouble. You're going to get a write-up for sure."

"Fuck."

Donut climbed to his feet and stared through the bars, in the direction that the noise was coming from. He saw a blond guard that he didn't know the name of enter Tucker's cell, while York walked into Church's.

* * *

"What're you doing?" Church muttered. "You're in the wrong cell block."

York shrugged, opening Church's footlocker. "We checked all over the block you mentioned. We found some contraband, but nothing worth more than a write-up, nothing dangerous. Why recommend we check their cells, anyway? They're just check swindlers."

"I just heard some things."

Church heard Tucker complaining, although he couldn't see him.

"Hey, don't go waving that around!"

"What is this? It looks like some kind of drug."

"Nah, man. It's just sherbet."

"Sherbet."

"Yeah."

"That's the stupidest excuse ever. ...Of all time."

"Dude, seriously. Taste it. It's sherbet."

York finished checking over Church's cell quickly. Church didn't keep much in there, and certainly nothing illegal. He wasn't that stupid. The guards knew he had done some smuggling outside prison, so they tended to check his cell whenever things went missing.

But Church was surprised nothing was found. The guards clearly hadn't found anything in Miller's cell. Which meant Miller must have found the screwdriver. Goddammit. But he would have expected them to plant it in his cell, which they hadn't done.

Maybe they'd planted it in Tucker's cell? But judging from the argument now taking place between Tucker and Wash, the worst thing they had found in Tucker's cell really was a bag of sherbet. For some reason Church could not fathom, Tucker really loved sherbet. And he often liked to sell small bags of it to drug-addled roommates, convincing them that it was really a more illicit substance. Said that it let him practice his swindling abilities, even if it got him beaten up on occasion.

The screwdriver wasn't in his cell, or Tucker's cell. Maybe they'd just thrown it away... but that seemed off. Why would Miller miss an opportunity to get one of them in trouble?

* * *

"Stand in the corner," Wash said, while York covered his nose at the stench coming from Caboose's cell. As soon as Wash told him to stand in the corner, Caboose immediately moved off his bed and sat on his footlocker instead.

"There is nothing in here," Caboose said quickly. "It does not need to be checked."

"Caboose. Stand in the corner. I'm giving you to the count of one," Wash said sternly, holding his nightstick tightly. Caboose shifted a little, but he didn't move off the footlocker. "One." Wash raised his nightstick, which caused Caboose to automatically flinch, but York reached out to stop him.

"It doesn't have to be violent. It's fine," York muttered quietly.

"You're too soft, York."

"Be that as it may, I prepared for the occasion." York reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bar of chocolate. "I'll give you this if you let us check your locker," he told Caboose. Caboose considered this very briefly before nodding. "See? North said candy usually works on Caboose."

"Yeah, but North coddles the prisoners far too much as well."

"Oh, shush." York reached to open the footlocker. "A chocolate bar costs less than fixing a broken arm." He opened the footlocker and stepped back, gazing at the dead, half-rotten pigeon inside. "Wow. That's disgusting."

"Please do not take my pigeon again."

"Caboose, you know we can't let you keep that. It's unsanitary," Wash told him. He was still holding his nightstick at the ready. The last time he had tried to take away one of Caboose's 'pets' the results had been violent. Both of them had been sent to the infirmary afterwards, Wash with a broken arm and Caboose with two cracked ribs and an eye so bruised he couldn't see out of for a month.

It seemed that Caboose remembered this occasion quite clearly, because this time he didn't move to try and stop Wash.

Violence didn't work on Wash. Nor did puppy-dog eyes. Caboose had attempted that before, but it seemed Wash was immune to them. All Caboose could really do was try not to cry when they dropped Margretta unceremoniously into a plastic bag.

On his way out, York handed the chocolate bar over. That did cheer Caboose up some. Although it wasn't as comforting as having a friend to talk to. Even if that friend was always sleeping and falling apart.

* * *

"Oh, give it up, Grif," Simmons said, listening to Grif trying to flush away his entire supply of pruno despite the fact that the toilet didn't flush. "It's not gonna work."

"Had to try," Grif insisted.

"They're walking this way, you know."

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

"Grif, stop flushing the evidence," York said, tapping on the bars of Grif's cell. "Stand in the corner, alright?"

The guard that Donut didn't recognise walked past Grif's cell to check Simmons. Donut could hear York talking from Grif's cell, as the inspection in Simmons' cell was entirely silent save for the sound of the guard shuffling items about.

"Wow, that is a lot of pruno. It's actually kind of impressive. I've rarely seen so much pruno in one place and I've been working as a prison guard for ages... I'm going to have to confiscate this, Grif."

"Yeah, I know."

"Have you been selling this to other inmates?"

"Uh, no."

"Well, I'll let you go without a write-up. You haven't been walking around openly drunk, at least. Just help me carry it out of your cell."

"Aw, that takes work. You know I hate physical labor. Can't I just have the write-up?"

"No, you're helping me carry it."

"Oh, you bastard."

"Simmons is clean," the guard in Simmons' cell said.

"Of course I am, Wash. I'm not Grif, I don't use the toilet to brew alcohol," Simmons complained.

"That is a false accusation, I have never brewed alcohol in a toilet!" Grif yelled. "Sinks, yes. But never in the toilet. I have my standards!"

The guard, Wash, left Simmons' cell and stopped in front of Donut's. He didn't walk right in. He just stared at Donut with his eyes narrowed for a few long moments. Donut had only seen Wash from a distance before, usually patrolling with York. He recalled Caboose saying he was scary, and could see why. There was just something about that stare that was intimidating and businesslike. Like he wouldn't hesitate to shoot you in the face.

"You're Franklin Delano Donut?" Wash said slowly.

"Uh, yeah?"

Wash looked him up and down, eyes still narrowed suspiciously. "You're not what I expected. Stand in the corner."

Donut backed away and stood against the wall obediently while Wash opened his footlocker. Nothing in there but his shoes. Just a routine check, feeling around...

"What's this?" Wash muttered, his hand reaching under the cot. Donut tilted his head, trying to remember if he'd left anything under the bed. Wash tugged on whatever he had a hold of, and pulled out a screwdriver. Bits of tape were still stuck on the handle and dried blood stained the end of it.

"What the? That's... that's not mine!"

"York! Found something."

York, in the middle of carrying Grif's pruno out of his cell, dropped the half-full plastic bag he was holding and entered the cell. When he saw the screwdriver, he looked almost as mystified as Donut.

"A screwdriver?" York asked.

"Found it taped under his cot. And it's bloody. He's attacked someone already."

"I didn't attack anyone!" Donut protested. "I was the one who was attacked, you—"

"Be quiet," Wash said coldly. He handed the screwdriver to York. "Solitary?" York frowned, turning towards Donut.

"Pull back your jacket," York told him. Donut slipped his jacket off one arm, showing the bandages where the screwdriver had injured him. York sighed, glancing back at Wash.

"He's the only screwdriver attack unaccounted for," York told him. "He wouldn't attack himself unless he was trying to—"

"If you're going to finish that with 'commit suicide,' committing suicide doesn't involve stabbing your shoulder," Wash interrupted.

"Then explain it."

"I still say solitary. Regardless of why he has a bloodied screwdriver, the fact remains that he has a bloodied screwdriver taped to the bottom of his bed!"

York held up the screwdriver, looking at Donut. "Donut... did you try and kill yourself with this?"

"No!"

"Donut wouldn't do that. He's too wussy," Grif said helpfully.

"Yeah!" Donut agreed.

"Hm. Well, I don't believe you've been stabbing inmates," York said.

"York? You realise you're talking to a man who stabbed his roommate to death?" Wash said, sounding slightly frustrated. "And you just said you don't believe he would stab people?"

"Right, right." York shrugged. "Sorry. I really don't know what to do but put you into solitary until we've figured the situation out better. Either you've been stabbing inmates, you've been trying to kill yourself or it was planted. And if it's the first two, solitary would be the best thing."

"But I didn't do anything, it must have been planted or something!" Donut pleaded. "Don't throw me in solitary, please? Pleeeease?"

"I told you to be quiet. I'm warning you." Wash jerked his thumb towards the exit of the cell. "Out. Come with me, now. And don't say another word."

Donut really didn't like that look Wash was giving him. That stare wasn't just intimidating... It wasn't just giving off the feeling like Wash could shoot him quite easily. Donut was getting the distinct feeling that Wash would gladly shoot him if he could get away with it.

Considering that, it seemed like a bad idea to argue too much.

* * *

O'Malley was pacing the cell again when he heard the door creak open. Immediately, he dropped to the floor to stare through his food slot at the new arrivals. He knew it wasn't time for a meal, so whoever was walking down would be bringing an inmate down.

He recognised the guard, of course. Dear old Washington. O'Malley was no stranger to being beaten by Wash. The most prominent one had been after O'Malley had blinded York in one eye. But O'Malley was more focused on the inmate that had been brought in. That blond, flaky pastry.

O'Malley grinned, trying to get a better look. The pastry looked so confused. Scared. O'Malley wondered what he had done to get thrown down there, but he supposed it didn't really matter.

And then the best thing that O'Malley could have hoped for happened. Wash stopped in front of the cell across from O'Malley's.

"In," Wash said shortly, pointing at the cell.

"I didn't do anything," the pastry protested half-heartedly. "Please, Wash, come on..." Donut was interrupted by Wash pushing him inside roughly.

"I honestly don't care," Wash said coolly, before slamming the door on him. O'Malley watched as Wash walked away, before fixing his gaze back on Donut's door.

"Come on, let me out!" Donut shouted, dropping to his own knees and staring through his own food slot. When he didn't get a reply, the pastry sighed. And then he saw O'Malley watching him.

O'Malley stared for a few seconds more before coming to a realisation.

_The pastry has no idea who I am. He's sitting in the cell across from mine, and he has no idea._

O'Malley suddenly felt like it was his birthday.

Donut spoke first, after a few more seconds of awkward staring. "Um... hi?"

O'Malley changed the pitch of his voice before he spoke, using the smoother, less cackly voice he had often used when trying to convince potential patients that he had more credibility as a doctor, even though he had been working in a somewhat unsanitary environment.

"Hey. You got a name, kid?" O'Malley asked, trying to sound friendly rather than crazy. Seeing as Donut didn't edge away from the food slot, he supposed it worked. Although O'Malley was better at pretending not to be insane when he was off these damn pills.

"I'm Donut. You?"

O'Malley grabbed the first name that came to mind, perhaps because that particular name came to mind so often lately.

"DuFresne. Frank DuFresne."


	29. Chapter 29: Neighbourly Conversation

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Neighbourly Conversation**

Being in solitary was oddly similar to being in the infirmary. Sure, the room was a lot smaller and Donut's leg wasn't covered in a lightish red cast decorated with a badly drawn naked lady this time. But it did come down to the same thing, really. Being stuck in one place without anything to do.

But solitary was more maddening. At least in the infirmary Donut had occasionally had different people to talk to. Either Doc or whoever else was in the infirmary that day. In solitary, he had no-one. At least not in the same room. Which Donut supposed was the point of solitary.

That wasn't to say he was completely alone, because the inmate across from him, DuFresne, kept talking. Usually asking questions about Donut. Most of them pretty normal questions, like how long he'd been in prison and what he thought of the living conditions... So, it was far from complete silence. And they weren't the only ones talking. Occasionally, he could hear the conversation of other isolated inmates.

It seemed like the other inmates had other ways of dealing with the isolation. The first morning after Donut had been thrown in solitary, he was woken up by people shouting their names.

"DuFresne? What are they doing?" Donut asked quietly, seeing that his neighbour was already awake, staring through his food slot towards the source of the noise.

"A silly tradition that some of the little prison gangs have. They shout out their names as sort of roll-call. It's supposed to show solidarity." Donut heard a faint derisive tone in DuFresne's voice.

"You don't do it?"

"Shouting my name out into the open wouldn't help me at all."

Donut nodded, trying to stretch out on the floor as much as he could. It was a difficult task, there was barely room enough for the cot.

"So, Donut. Over three months in here, hm? How are you coping so far?"

"Alright, I guess. I mean, the first week was totally scary. And painful. Mostly painful. I guess it's not as bad, now."

"Really, now."

"Well, I'm still not happy about being stuck here until I'm forty." Donut rested his chin on his folded arms, looking at DuFresne. "Hey, how long have you been in here?"

"Me? Three very long years."

"How long do you have left before parole?"

"Many years, my friend. Many, many years."

"How do you not go insane over that?"

Even as Donut said this, he immediately wanted to backtrack. While DuFresne was friendly enough, Donut always got the feeling he was a little off. It was probably the occasional twitching and near-constant fidgeting. Even though he was only able to see a little bit of DuFresne through his food slot, he noticed that he was very jumpy.

DuFresne climbed to his feet and started pacing his cell again. Donut could only see his feet moving past the door.

"How? It's really quite easy. Prison isn't so bad once you get used to it. I just find things to amuse myself with."

"Like what?"

"Well, at the moment I'm talking to you. That's a lot more interesting than staring at the wall, isn't it? And I'm finding it quite amusing. In the nicest sense, of course."

"What did you do?"

Tucker raised an eyebrow at Caboose, who was staring at him suspiciously. On the inside, he immediately started to panic.

_Oh crap, he's angry at me again. And Church isn't here to stop him. Fuck! Damn it, Church, why'd you have to go to the toilet now?_

"What do you mean?" Tucker asked calmly, making sure he didn't let his panic spill out.

"You had something to do with Captain Twinkie being locked away. I know it."

"Oh come on, why are you always blaming me?" Tucker complained.

"Because bad things are always either your fault or O'Malley's fault. And O'Malley is in solitary, so he could not have done it. So it must be your fault," Caboose said, confident in his own offbeat logic.

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Not everything is my fault, just because you don't like me." _Admittedly, Donut getting shoved into solitary is a little bit my fault, but it's mostly Miller's fault... dumbass mixing up the cells._

"I know this is your fault. I am not stupid, Tucker."

"Uh... actually, yes. You are." Tucker slowly shifted away from Caboose, just in case Caboose tried to strangle him again. He certainly looked like he was thinking about it.

"You are going to fix it," Caboose said slowly.

"Fix what?"

"Fix the problem. You got Muffin Man locked up. You will get him out."

"Hey, there is no way I'm gonna do that. Even if I could," Tucker told him. "There is no way I'm breaking him out of solitary. He'd just end up back in there, anyway. Plus the fact that, you know... it's not fucking possible."

"But... but O'Malley is in there! That is a bad thing! O'Malley will hurt Admiral Buttercrust, because he is a bad man!"

"Well. It sucks to be Donut, doesn't it?"

"Yes, Tucker. It does. Which is why you are going to fix it."

"I can't fucking fix it, didn't I already say that?"

"You can. It is your fault the screwdriver was in Captain Twinkie's cell. Admit it and they will let him out."

"But then they'll throw me in there," Tucker protested.

"I don't care." Reaching out, Caboose gripped the back of Tucker's collar again. He didn't pull it hard enough to choke him, but the message was clear. "You get Captain Twinkie out. Or you are going to have a very bad fall."

"Come on, Caboose. I can't have something that bad written up on me! It'll go on my record, and the parole board won't let me out of here!"

_And I won't get to see Junior. I'll be separated from him for even longer... I might never get to see him without a sheet of glass separating us..._

"You should have thought about that. But you did not, because you are stupid." Caboose let go of Tucker's collar and held up two fingers. "You have three days to decide, Tucker."

Normally, Tucker would have made fun of Caboose for getting the amount of fingers wrong. This time, he just stayed quiet.

* * *

O'Malley tapped his foot against the wall impatiently. He'd been feeding questions to Donut for hours, trying to find something he could use against him. He couldn't really get to Donut until he knew enough about the flaky pastry. All he had really been able to discern so far was that Donut was not looking forward to getting old and that he had a strong love of anything that smelt like lavender. The first fact had some potential, but how was he going to use the pastry's love of girly smells against him?

O'Malley, of course, couldn't ask anything too direct. If he was too obviously creepy and interested, Donut might figure out the truth. Granted, the pastry wasn't that smart... but still. Finding the right questions and comments was like edging through a minefield. And it was always so hard to concentrate when he was on the medication.

Speaking of which... medication time should be any minute now.

O'Malley's prediction was correct. It wasn't long before one of the guards, North, opened the door, pushing a trolley of trays along. "Food time, guys!" He slid Donut's tray through the food slot, receiving a quiet thank you, before unlocking O'Malley's cell.

O'Malley sat up on his cot, eyeing the little cup of colourful tablets that North was holding out. His medication was one of the three things he hated most, the other two being boredom and parrots. Normally, this would be the time when he would fight tooth and nail to try and avoid taking them, even though every time ended with the medicine shoved down his throat and a few more bruises.

But now the pastry was there, listening. If he kicked up a fuss, there was a higher chance North would give away his name...

Taking the medicine through free will went against everything O'Malley stood for. But it was the only way to keep up his little game.

O'Malley reached out for the cup of tablets and quietly tipped them into his mouth. A gulp of water later and he'd swallowed them. North blinked, visibly surprised at how easy it had been that time. He was used to struggling to get the medication into O'Malley, and his fingers were covered in scars from when O'Malley, or other inmates on the more insane side of things, had bitten him.

"Well, finally being more compliant, are you? Can't say I'm sad about it," North said, sliding O'Malley's food tray towards him before shutting the door on O'Malley. O'Malley let out a sigh of relief that North had forgone using his name.

"What are the pills for?" O'Malley heard Donut ask curiously. Donut had been watching through his food slot when the guard opened O'Malley's door. Perhaps curious to catch a glimpse of his 'neighbour.' O'Malley sat down next to the food slot, picking up his dinner tray.

"Just medicine. I have a kidney infection that needs treatment," O'Malley lied. In actual fact, he couldn't quite remember what the point of his medication was. He was sure it was some form of mind control, since he had more trouble thinking and focusing when he was on them. He did know Doc was quite insistent about the necessity.

"Oh. Okay. I thought they might have been crazy pills. Uhhh... I mean. Uh. That came out wrong," Donut babbled. "I didn't mean to say you were crazy... I was just... uh..."

"Quite alright. So, kid... you like the prison food? Rather be eating something else, I'd think."

"Oh, for sure... I mean, at least this isn't like the movies, like when they had gruel or bologna sandwiches..."

O'Malley settled back against the wall, eating his own dinner and trying to keep focus as Donut trailed off on a long talk about food, eventually digressing into crockpot recipes. O'Malley had to try and keep focus while he still could, before the latest dose of medication took full effect and made his head foggy again.


	30. Chapter 30: Take The Fall

**Chapter Thirty: Take The Fall**

"Well... shit," Church muttered.

"I know... fucking bullshit." Tucker toyed with his dinner miserably, glaring at the instant mashed potatoes like they'd personally wronged him. "It's not like it's even my fault. How was I supposed to know the damn screwdriver would end up in Donut's cell? The fuck am I gonna do, now?"

Caboose had already finished his dinner and Church had told him to go back to his cell, mostly so he could figure out why Tucker had been making pointing gestures at Caboose's back followed by strangling gestures and oh-shit-I'm-going-to-die gestures.

"It'll be fine, I'll just tell him to quit it," Church said, waving his hand dismissively. "Caboose will listen to me."

"Will he? I don't know about that. He was really mad. He wasn't shouting or anything, but..."

"He'll listen. He better fucking listen, anyway."

"Well, if you are gonna talk to him, you better do it today. Caboose said three days, but he held up two fingers so he might mean two days. Dumbass." Tucker sighed. "If it doesn't work, then I have no idea what I'm gonna do. I can't get a write-up that bad!"

"Oh, stop whining," Church grumbled. "You're acting like your life is over."

"If it doesn't work, it might as well be. Fifteen more years in this place is bad enough."

"Hey. I don't even have a chance at parole. Stop bitching about fifteen years."

"You don't have a kid on the outside. You don't have anyone on the outside!"

"Hey, that's not completely true. Just because I don't know what name my little brother goes by now... anyway, don't be such a drama queen. If talking to Caboose doesn't work, we'll just figure out another way. There's usually some kind of solution, even when everything is going to shit. Trust me on this." Church climbed to his feet. "Wait here, I don't think Caboose will be easy to reason with if you're there. Alright?"

* * *

"And then she was all 'but pink is so last year' and I was all 'it's not pink, it's lightish red! And it's so in!'"

By this point, O'Malley felt like hitting his head against the wall until he passed out. Anything to block out that damn pastry. Finally, he had met someone who rivaled him in the art of mental torture, even if the torture was completely unintentional. It hadn't even been a full day, but O'Malley was going even more mental than he already was.

And he had to keep listening, waiting for something useful. The pastry seemed to have a horrible fear of clashing colours, but decorating his cell in, say, purple and bright yellow checkered cloth didn't seem evil enough...

_Oh god, he's still talking about the difference between pink and lightish red. This is worse than having to listen to Doc whine about people who made his life difficult, or Caboose babbling about his time in that hospital..._

"I haven't seen her since I got locked up, though. Actually, I haven't really seen anyone. I guess stabbing my roomie freaked them out, but what was I supposed to do? Besides, even if they weren't freaked out they'd probably leave visiting until they had nothing else to do. And that isn't much."

O'Malley, who had been resting his forehead against the wall and wishing he had the power to blow people up with his mind so he wouldn't have to listen to this anymore, shifted and sat on the floor so he could see through his food slot again.

"Have you made any friends in here, then? If you're going to not go mental in here..."

"I'll need friends, I know. I've been told that already. Yeah, Grif and Simmons are pretty good to hang around. Same with Caboose, once I mostly got over him breaking my leg. Oh crap, I mean..." Donut fumbled with his words for a moment. "Uh, did I say leg? I meant... breaking my, um, soap."

"...Breaking your soap."

"Yeah. It was good soap. Smelt like lavender. Yeah, breaking my leg had nothing to do with... I just tripped."

"No offence, kid, but you're a horrible liar."

"Yeah... But don't tell the guards about that. Besides, Caboose is my protection, now. So he won't be breaking my leg again, I don't think."

"Aaah. Protection. Very costly," O'Malley said, resting his chin on his hands and gazing through the food slot. "How did you afford that so quickly?"

"Oh, I didn't pay with money. Me and Church made a deal."

"Really? What kind?"

"That? Top secret!" Donut stretched out on his floor, looking back. "I can't tell something like that, it would ruin the deal."

"Ah, I see. Fair enough."

O'Malley was curious as to what kind of deal Donut could have made with Church. It must have been done when they were in the infirmary, Donut wouldn't have had time beforehand. O'Malley knew better than to press for information. If he got pushy Donut might suspect something. But the phrasing Donut used made it clear that he was keeping something secret. Blackmail? O'Malley knew Church well, and Church wouldn't cave into just any old blackmail. It would have to be something big.

If it was something that took place in the infirmary... perhaps Doc would know something about it.

O'Malley grinned and rested his head back against the wall. He could stand more of Donut's mind-numbing babbling, if Donut would occasionally let slip information like that.

Even if he was looking for Donut to give away information, the information Donut didn't immediately give away could be so much more interesting to ponder over.

And he had a great excuse to visit the infirmary once he was released.

* * *

"Caboose, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Caboose paused, looking up from the book he'd borrowed from the library. "Um. Looking for pictures?"

"Not what I meant, so put the damn book down." Caboose pouted, but he obediently put the book down. "Need to have a word with you."

"Yay, talking time. You never want to have talking time anymore, and best friends are supposed to talk lots! But we don't talk lots, because you are always plotting."

"Right, whatever." Church crossed his arms and glared at Caboose. "Why are you threatening Tucker?"

"He told you?"

"Yeah. Seriously, Caboose. What the fuck were you thinking? You don't fucking threaten your own side!"

"I am not on Tucker's side. Tucker is a hippo-kite," Caboose mumbled.

"Look, you're on my side, aren't you?"

"Yes. Because you are my best friend."

"That means you're on Tucker's side, too. Because we're supposed to be a goddamn team. Which means we're not supposed to be threatening to kill each other!"

"I never threatened to kill him... he is just going to fall over if he does not fix things."

"Don't even think about it. You hurt Tucker, and you are going to be in big, big trouble. Seriously. I will hurt you."

Caboose tilted his head. "Oh, I do not think that you could, Church. We are best friends, and best friends don't hurt each other. ...Also, I am much bigger."

Church groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll manage it somehow. But come on, you have to stop it. Okay?"

"No. Not until Tucker gets Captain Twinkie out of solitary," Caboose said stubbornly.

"Jeez... what is so fucking great about Donut? He's a flaming douchebag!" Church shouted.

"Captain Twinkie is on fire?!" Caboose asked, looking startled.

"Not what I meant! Goddammit, look, the screwdriver thing isn't just Tucker's fault. Miller is the one who put it there. Not Tucker. It was a fucking mix-up! It wasn't Tucker's goddamn fault, alright?"

"You are saying it was not Tucker?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm saying."

"I do not believe you. I think you are trying to cover up for Tucker."

"Oh, come on. Why would I cover up for Tucker?"

"Because he is your second-best friend for some reason. And I still want him to get Private Biscuit out. Because Tucker is a mean hippo-kite and bad things are always his fault."

"God-fucking-dammit. Okay, look. If Donut gets released from solitary in the next couple of days, will you promise to stop threatening Tucker? Regardless of how Donut gets released and whatever happens afterwards?"

"I guess. But only if you ask nicely."

"Fuck it, that's the nicest I'm ever going to get. Okay, then. I'll make sure Donut gets out, just stop being a fucking jackass."

"Yay! Thank you, Church!"

"Hey, no hug, no hug!" Church shoved out his hands to prevent Caboose from hugging him. "Just... calm down, alright?"

* * *

"He says he'll stop trying to hurt you once Dye-Job is out of solitary," Church told Tucker, shrugging.

"So, we're basically in the same fucking place as before you went to talk to him. Brilliant job, there," Tucker said sarcastically.

"Shut up. I repeat. It's going to be fine, just stop being a fucking drama queen."

"How is it going to be fine? Why are you still saying that? I told you talking to him wouldn't do fucking anything, he's too thickheaded to listen!"

"Hey, he didn't say who had to get Dye-Job out of solitary. As long as someone takes the fall, Caboose will lay off trying to hurt you. I'll try to find some proof that Miller put the screwdriver there."

"And if that fails? Which it probably will?"

"Easy. I'll tell them I did it," Church said, shrugging. Tucker climbed to his feet, eyes wide.

"What? No, don't do that."

"Tucker, I'm in here for life without parole. I've got nothing to lose. Besides... I was with you when you tried planting the screwdriver. It's not like it's a complete lie." Church sighed. "God, I hate solitary, though. You're gonna owe me one after this shit."

"But what if they do find a punishment? Like, what if they transfer you or some shit?"

"That's unlikely. And I'm pretty sure Tex could stop that from happening." Church stretched his arms above his head. "Tomorrow we'll try and find a way to get Miller to admit to putting the screwdriver there. I don't want to go to solitary unless there's no other choice. And I want to get some breakfast in first. The stuff in solitary is usually cold."

Tucker squinted, and waved his hand in front of Church's face.

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with Church? You're supposed to be a selfish bastard. Why are you taking the fall?"

Church just shrugged.

"Are you fucking complaining about it?"

"Well... no, but..."

"Then shut up and help me dig up shit on Miller. He is so gonna pay for this once I get out."


	31. Chapter 31: Winter Moodswings

**Chapter Thirty-One: Winter Moodswings**

"Hey, Grif! Come on!" Simmons entered Grif's cell. Grif had gone back in there as soon as lunch was over, rather than heading towards the yard. He was now huddled on his cot, wrapped in his thin blanket. "You going to sit here all day?"

"Yes. It's too cold outside. Fuck the cold," Grif muttered. Simmons sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Isn't it a bit early for you to be hitting your winter depression?"

"It's cold enough. And I can't dull the pain with pruno since they checked our cells. So fuck off."

"Wuss."

Grif grunted in reply. Apparently, the effort of saying 'fuck off' again was too much. He knew Simmons wouldn't leave, anyway. Simmons was used to Grif's foul mood when the weather was cold. It had been bad even outside prison, but once they'd been imprisoned his winter mood swings had gotten a hundred times worse.

Besides, Grif was more focused on something hanging on the wall. Simmons followed his gaze. It was a photo of Sister. Simmons scooted closer to Grif, looking at the photo too.

"You miss her, huh?"

"Fuck, of course I do," Grif muttered. "And I'm supposed to be out there protecting her. I don't know what she's doing without me there. And I can't even ask half the things I want to because the guards are always standing there and there's always a chance they'll overhear shit about her doing drugs or whatever. I can't do anything for her now."

Simmons wrapped one arm around Grif, resting his chin on Grif's blanketed shoulder. "Feeling some regrets?"

"If you're asking whether I regret murdering that bastard... no. But if I could turn back the clock before it happened... I'd make sure I didn't drop my fucking wallet this time. God, how could I have been that stupid?"

"You can't change what already happened, at least until science invents a time machine. And if one of us was going to buy a time machine in the future and prevent you from getting caught, then we wouldn't buy the time machine in the first place and the paradox would destroy the universe."

"Nerd."

"Just don't think about it. Work on behaving well enough to get parole." Simmons chuckled half-heartedly. "Although asking you to behave is like asking a bird not to fly." Grif rolled his eyes and smacked Simmons lightly across the head.

"Very funny. Asshole."

"If it makes you feel any better, I think that mess we left behind is a great warning to anyone who tries to hurt Sister."

A grin crossed Grif's face. "Oh yeah. Sister said that guys tend to be disturbed once she tells them about it."

"I'd say that's a success, then. Or at least not a complete failure. Even if dropping your wallet was the stupidest thing you could have done short of painting your name, face and address on the wall."

"Hey, don't think I know it. Worst mistake of my life," Grif grumbled.

"Mmhm."

"What about you? You regret it at all?"

Simmons snorted. "No. I'd do it all again. Now come on, get out of bed. You need some kind of exercise, that's for fucking sure." Simmons patted Grif's stomach, grinning, and earned another light smack.

"Shut up. Heh... besides, the only exercise I'd want to do takes place in the bed."

* * *

"Bow-chika-bow-wow," Tucker announced.

"What are you on about now?" Church grumbled, hands jammed in his pockets as he stared out over the yard.

"I... I don't know. I just had a feeling that someone was hitting on someone else."

"Yeah... No one cares."

"Don't diss my instincts. Anyway... You sure you want to do this? You absolutely sure?"

"Yeah, I said I was sure."

"Absolutely?"

"Goddammit, Tucker, I said I was fucking sure. Don't make me staple your lips shut!"

"You don't have to shout..."

"Alright... when Dye-Job is sent out here, you're gonna have to explain to him that it's not completely our fault he ended up in solitary. I don't want him blaming us too. Try to get to him before Caboose gets to him and insists everything was your fault."

"Will do."

"Alright. And try to find a way to get to Miller. I still want fucking vengeance when I get out."

Tucker grinned and mock saluted him. "Yes, sir. Just keep piling the freaking orders on, why don't you."

"Fuck you."

"So, if Caboose goes back on his word and attacks, what do I do?"

"He promised he wouldn't. He doesn't break promises because 'his mama told him not to.' You'll be fine."

"You know, I think his mother would have also said no to killing people, but that never stopped him. And easy for you to say, you've never been chased by the guy. It's like being chased by the fucking Terminator, but... you know, fucking retarded."

"Oh, you're worrying too much."

"Hey, you know how the saying goes. Better safe than having my head turned into a pancake. Or something."

Church rolled his eyes. "Seriously, it'll be fine. If not... then, I dunno, I owe you a soda or something."

"Great, Church. Great. That'll be a great comfort when my head is pancake-shaped. Seriously, thanks, that really brightened up the situation."

* * *

Donut lay on his cot and stared up at the ceiling, reduced to counting the cracks in the ceiling to pass the time. He hadn't even been in solitary for two full days, and he was already getting bored and frustrated. He felt like he was going to go stark raving mad any minute now.

He'd talked to DuFresne until he ran out of subjects to talk about. Donut couldn't recall that happening before. Then again, he hadn't ever spent so much time with nothing to do but talk. With occasional breaks for eating and sleeping.

Donut rolled off his cot and peered through his food slot. Even when they weren't talking (admittedly, Donut did most of the talking) Donut often saw DuFresne staring through it, or at least curled up next to it. At the moment, that was what he was doing.

Donut gazed at him for a moment before realising he still knew very little about his 'neighbour.' All he really knew was that DuFresne was a red-haired man with a kidney infection. That was hardly enough knowledge to have on someone one was acquaintances with.

"Hey, DuFresne? What did you do to get in here?" Donut asked curiously.

DuFresne had his back towards the food slot, and he didn't turn around. When he spoke, the tone suggested he had been napping on the floor.

"Hm? To get where?" DuFresne asked sleepily.

"I don't know... prison, I guess. Unless it's, like, a touchy subject or something."

There was a long pause, punctuated only by DuFresne yawning. "I got sent here for stealing a truck. Don't remember what it had in it."

"Really? A truck?"

"Would I lie?"

"Well... no offence, but you are in prison. And people get sent here for worse stuff than lying."

"Fair logic."

"So, is the truck the only bad thing you did? Or were you, like, a regular stealer of trucks?"

"Are you interrogating me?"

"Noooo... I'm just curious. That and I'm really, really bored. And I talked for ages, but I didn't actually learn anything about you, so..."

"I'm afraid I'm not comfortable sharing the details of my criminal life with you."

"Okay. That's cool."

* * *

To be truthful, O'Malley wouldn't have minded talking at length about his crime-based life. But talking too much about his actual criminal experience, rather than just making up some baloney about a truck (O'Malley had stolen a truck once, but that wasn't what he had been caught for) was too risky for his little game of 'pretending to be someone who isn't a psychopath.'

Although, to be truthful, he was getting rather tired of listening to Donut. Not just because he was disturbingly good at mental torture, but because the pastry just wasn't as interesting to him as the other people on his list of favourite people to torture. Sure, the pastry had guts enough to smash him in the face, but other than that O'Malley wasn't that interested. Perhaps good for a little bit of torture and fun, but just not quite interesting enough to hold O'Malley's attention.

Admittedly, O'Malley was easily distracted. It took someone 'special' to hold his attention.

Still, the little charade was fun as far as entertainment in solitary went. And O'Malley had learned little pieces of information that might allow for better evil opportunities later. The other downside to trying to implement his games in solitary was that... well, it was hard to reach the victim when there were two doors separating them.

While O'Malley pondered, still half-asleep and his thought train somewhat scattered, he heard the door leading to the row of cells swing open and footsteps. It wasn't food time. It was a new arrival. O'Malley peered through his food slot and, upon sighting the new arrival, scooted quickly away from the food slot.

Church would recognise him right off, and even though the pastry didn't interest him as much anymore, he still didn't want to give away his identity so soon.

Church was being led by York, who unfastened Donut's cell door and swung it open.

"On your feet, Donut. The guy who planted the screwdriver confessed, so you're allowed to go free. Well, not quite free... you still have to stay in prison, obviously. But free from solitary, anyway," York told him. O'Malley stared through his slot from a safe distance, although all he could see were pairs of feet.

"Really? I can... wait, Church left it there? Why'd you do that?" O'Malley heard Donut say. O'Malley heard Church mumble something unintelligible in reply.

"Come on, come on. No standing around, just get in your cell. Come on, Donut."

"Oh, okay..." Donut's tone was completely befuddled, like he hadn't quite realised what was happening. O'Malley heard two pairs of footsteps walk away, before the door slammed shut. Immediately, O'Malley spoke.

"Taking the blame, are you? Quite uncharacteristic of you."

"Holy sh—oh, just my fucking luck," Church groaned. "Of all the people to be stuck near..."

"Yes, luck is just raining down upon you, isn't it?" O'Malley laughed, and rolled onto his back. He still kept staring through his food slot. "So... what happened in the infirmary?"

"...What?"

"What happened in the infirmary? I want to hear it in your own words, instead of the words of that flaky pastry. I do like to hear things from different perspectives."

O'Malley couldn't see Church's face, but he knew the expression would be hilarious. Even just imagining the expression, and hearing Church swear angrily, was enough to send O'Malley into full-blown manic laughter.


	32. Chapter 32: Wrong Roof

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Wrong Roof**

Donut didn't really pay attention as York prodded him towards the yard. It had only hit him, about halfway towards the yard, that he was actually out of the tiny cell. Out after... two days? It felt like at least two weeks... how did inmates survive weeks or months in there without going insane from boredom?

And Church had got him out. But Church had gotten him in there, too. Donut wasn't really sure what to think about that. Not to mention it seemed weird that Church would confess so easily. He had always seemed like... well, a selfish bastard. Plus, he and Donut were less than friendly at the best of times.

York left as soon as they reached the yard, saying something about he had to find Wash and say 'I told you so.' Donut glanced around for the others. He didn't see Grif and Simmons around, but he could see Caboose walking around in circles on the other side of the yard. Before Donut could walk towards him, a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back towards the doorway.

"I need to talk to you," Tucker said, a distinctively grumpy tone in his voice.

"Uh... okay."

Tucker dragged him just out of sight of the yard before speaking again.

"Church didn't do it."

"Huh?"

"The fucking screwdriver being planted. It wasn't Church that left it there. It was Miller, or one of his friends, or something. We think he mixed up Church's cell with yours. So, don't go blaming Church. Or me, for that matter, whatever Caboose might say..."

"Oh. So, it wasn't you or Church?"

"No. That's what I just said, Dye-Job. Jeez."

"Can you please stop calling me Dye-Job?"

"It making you uncomfortable? Then I'm going to do it even more often."

"So..." Donut crossed his arms. "How do you know it was Miller, then?"

"Uh... well, we may have left the screwdriver in his cell, originally. That didn't turn out so well. Look. I still really, really hate you. You're a flaming douchebag with stupid hair..."

"That's mean..."

"But I have to tell you this crap for two reasons." Tucker held up one finger. "First off, so you don't try to get us back for something we didn't do. You'd probably be unsuccessful if you tried, but no taking chances." Tucker held up a second finger. "And secondly... I'm gonna need your help."

"My help?"

"Yeah. See, me and Church want to get back at Miller. Thing is... he's wise to us. I can't get information from him and his friends, not after Joannes. And neither can Church. Doesn't trust either of us."

"Well, you were leaving screwdrivers in his cell. I wouldn't trust you, either," Donut interrupted.

"Shut up and listen. Now, you're still a pretty new fish. And even though you hang around us a bit, Miller probably won't think of you as one of us. Especially if you tell him you blackmailed Church into giving you protection in the first place. You earn his trust, and try to find something... anything... we can use against him."

Donut still had his arms crossed, and he tapped his foot against the ground a few times in thought, before saying, "Why should I?"

"What?"

"Why should I help? I barely know who Miller is, and even if he did leave a screwdriver in my cell, I don't really want to go up against him."

"You gotta be fucking joking. Don't be a sissy, you're helping with this."

"I don't want to."

"Don't care. You're helping. You owe Church for getting you out of there, don't you? He didn't have to, and he definetely didn't want to."

Donut frowned at that. _That's true... I'd still be rotting in that cell if Church hadn't 'confessed.'_

"If he didn't want to or have to, why did he?"

"Because he's a fucking idiot, now you gonna agree with me or not?"

Donut considered for a few more long moments before nodding. "Okay. As long as I don't have to do anything violent, I'll do it. But only because I owe him."

* * *

"You're a fucking idiot."

O'Malley grinned through his food slot at Church. "Oh, am I?"

"I know that fucking tactic, O'Malley. 'Pretend you already know something so the other person will spill.' You used to do that all the fucking time. Do you really think I'd fall for it?"

"Yes, we do know each other rather well, don't we? You'd know that I intend to find out through other sources if I can't get it out from your own mouth, then? It would be so much simpler for all involved if you just told me."

Church gave him the finger through his own food slot before dropping onto his cot.

"Oh, so defiant," Church could hear O'Malley purr. "But really, how would you prevent me from finding out? I'll be leaving solitary before you do. And, thanks to our flaky friend, I know whatever happened occurred in the infirmary. Do you really think Doc can keep a secret?"

"Hah. Joke's on you, Doc doesn't know shit."

"Really? Hm. Oh, I'll have to figure out another method, then. But rest assured, I will find out." Church heard O'Malley climb to his feet and start pacing around his cell. Jumpy bastard.

Eventually, he heard O'Malley stop pacing. And heard him start talking again. It took a lot to make O'Malley shut up when he was on a roll.

"What incident could occur that would make you cave into blackmail... there are very few options, after all. You're in here for life, so it couldn't be anything to do with criminal activities... hm, that strips out almost everything." The footsteps resumed. "What scares you, then. Did he threaten to tell everyone you're scared of thunderstorms? No, humiliating as that is... just not potent enough..."

Church tried blocking his ears with his deflated pillow.

"Something that could be used against you... what do people often use against others? Hm, family members. No, that couldn't be, you don't even know where your little brother is, you couldn't tell anyone else. Old friends? All you had was your little criminal ring, and you don't know where they are, either. Aside from myself, that is."

Church could still hear O'Malley clearly, despite his attempts to block his ears.

"Loved ones? Old loves? No, everyone knows about you and dear Tex, no-one better than myself... ah, so a new love. Oooh, that would be something you'd want to hide."

"Shut up already, would you?" Church roared.

"Oh, I hit the nail on the head, didn't I?"

"No fucking way, that's the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard."

_Seriously. What the fuck is he on about? Normally, O'Malley is fucking great at figuring out these things, at least when his medication is wearing off. But that's just completely off._

"So you might think. But... ah, now that I think about it. The signs are there. First off, you're in denial. I believe the same thing happened with Tex. 'I ain't in love, that shit is for girls, so shut the fuck up.' I know, I was there..."

"Oh god, shut up."

"You're getting defensive. Admittedly, that's very common, but... and all this links somehow to the infirmary..." O'Malley paused for a few seconds, then cracked up laughing again. "I never thought you'd swing that way. You crushing on an inmate?"

_I'm completely lost. Crushing on an inmate? That's mad. Sure, I might have been a bit clingy to Donut when I thought he was Tucker, but I was in goddamn pain. I wasn't thinking! There is no way I'm fucking crushing on Tucker, I'm just fucking confused. Painkillers with liquid gay still haven't worn off, last thing I need is O'Malley informing Tucker that he... fucking matters... _

_Wait a second... crushing on an inmate? But... if he's linking it to the infirmary then he wouldn't be thinking of Tucker. He'd be thinking of..._

"I must say, I never thought that girly pastries would be your sort," O'Malley laughed.

"What."

"Ah, things make so much sense, now. I was wondering why you would confess to a crime, it seemed very out-of-character for you. But, of course... To get your pastry out. And that's why you were getting that blond gorilla to protect him." O'Malley giggled happily. "You did spend a rather long time in the infirmary together. Just the two of you alone at night."

"Seriously. What are you on?"

"Hm... I can think of some people who might be eager to use this knowledge against you. After all, you're Church. The stone-cold bastard. You can't be blackmailed or threatened, because you just don't care enough about everything... of course, you'd want to keep any, uh... attachments quiet."

_Dear fucking god, he hasn't hit the nail on the head. He's fucking hammering a different roof! _

"You always did make getting attached much more complicated than it had to be. Just look at Tex."

"Shut up about Tex."

"I'm just warning you, as a former 'ally.' Falling in love never works out for you, does it? After all, where would you be now if you'd never fallen for Tex? You'd still be out there, running your criminal ring. You'd still be the Alpha. You'd still have Epsilon..."

"Fuck off!" Church snarled, trying to clasp the pillow over his ears. He considered cutting his ears off so he wouldn't have to listen to O'Malley anymore. Then he remembered he didn't have any sharp objects.

O'Malley started laughing again. "Oh, do you think I'd do that? We haven't had a long talk in so long. This is going to be a very fun month."


	33. Chapter 33: Lunchtime And Story Time

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Lunchtime And Story Time**

"Captain Cookie!"

Once again, Donut felt like he had been hit by a truck.

"Can't... breathe..." Donut choked out, trying to pry Caboose off him.

"You are safe! That means O'Malley did not get you, and that is good!" Caboose babbled happily, still not letting go of Donut. "And that also means Tucker did the better thing for once, which is also good. Because Tucker usually does the bad things."

"Can't... feel toes..."

"Can't feel your toes?" Caboose stopped hugging Donut, looking at him with concern. "Your face is kind of blue."

Donut made a wheezy noise, trying to catch his breath. After several seconds of nothing but wheezy breathing, Donut managed to ask, "What did Tucker have to do with it?"

"Oh, well... I told Tucker that if he did not tell the guards that he put the screwdriver in your cell, then he would have a bad fall. So, he did a good thing with trading places, even if I sort of made him."

"What? But he didn't, he's right over there. Church was the one that traded places."

Caboose was quiet for a few moments. "What?"

"Church traded places. Not Tucker."

Caboose opened and shut his mouth soundlessly a few times, before turning and starting to walk towards Tucker, very slowly.

"Uhhh. Caboose? What are you doing?" Donut asked hesitantly.

"Tucker did not do his part of the deal. I owe him a bad fall."

"No, no, no. No, don't do that." Donut tried tugging Caboose back, but Caboose kept walking. Even from the other side of the courtyard, Tucker had spotted them. He looked calm enough on the surface, but Donut (who had been picked on by bullies a lot when he was younger and knew the feeling of them walking towards you just before they opened a can of whoop-ass) noticed Tucker tensing up, like he was about to run for it. Donut got a tight hold of Caboose's arm and tried to hold him back, but all this accomplished was dragging him along behind Caboose, his shoes scraping over the concrete.

"I cannot use my arm if you are holding onto it, Admiral Buttercrust."

"That's kind of the point! Come on, can't you find a peaceful solution?" Donut begged. "No more violence, okay?"

"But he got Church in trouble now... Tucker! Stay where you are, it is hard to walk fast with Private Biscuit holding onto my arm!"

Tucker still looked like he was considering running, but he didn't move. Though whether he was trying to be brave enough to stand his ground or was just unable to move out of fear, Donut had no clue.

"Come on, Caboose. Tucker didn't do anything, why are you so angry about this?"

"Let go, please?" Caboose tried tugging his arm away from Donut, but Donut clung on. Even though it felt like being attached to a paint shaker.

"It wasn't my fault, Caboose," Tucker said nervously, taking a step back as Caboose got closer. "It was Church's idea, he insisted on it."

Caboose tried to raise his arm, but Donut was still holding onto it. He pouted angrily, before remembering he had another arm. He reached towards Tucker, but Tucker stepped out of his reach, and Caboose was having trouble moving forward because of Donut.

"I told you that you had to get him out. Not Church. You. Because it was your fault. Stop moving away!"

"Oh yeah, stop moving away. Why, so then you can crush my head in and blame it on me 'falling over?' I'm not as stupid as you are!" Tucker took another step backwards. "You promised Church you wouldn't hurt me if Donut was released."

"But..."

"You promised that you would, regardless of how Donut got out. Don't you remember?"

Caboose stopped trying to move towards Tucker, frowning. "...Yeah, but..."

"Come on, hurting people won't solve anything. There's always better ways," Donut insisted.

"Hurting people is quicker," Caboose mumbled.

"But it's not right. Come on."

After several seconds of silence, Caboose lowered his arms. Once Donut let go of him, Caboose turned around and walked away from both Donut and Tucker, back towards the building.

"Jeeeeesus," Tucker sighed. "He scares me, sometimes. One day, I think he really is going to kill me."

Donut breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, he won't today. That's something. Why does he hate you so much?"

"Wish I knew. I mean, we met very briefly on the outside once. But only once, and even though he gave me a black eye I don't think he even remembers it. That was six or seven years ago."

"Why'd he give you a black eye?"

"Er... I slept with two of his sisters. I think. Might have been three, I wasn't really keeping track, and they all kind of look the same..."

* * *

There were many things that Sarge hated, most of all those 'dirty Blues.' Sarge had to hate something, or else all the hateful energy would just make him explode. The Blues were just as good as anything. Better, even. And Sarge especially hated Captain Flowers and his girly locks. Although he had to grudgingly admit the man was a good captain of the guard. Amazing aim. No-one had escaped from the prison, even for a little while, since Flowers had been appointed captain of the guard.

But it was at times like this, when Flowers insisted on eating lunch in Sarge's office as an expression of 'comradeship,' that Sarge wished the man would shoot himself in the head.

"Oh, you're too high-strung, Sarge," Flowers said cheerfully, sitting on Sarge's desk due to lack of chairs and eating organic bread.

_Eating sissy-food on my desk. The nerve of that yellow-bellied scoundrel._

"High-strung? Of course! What good would it be if I was on low strings? Then I'd be susceptible to you and your evil plots!" Sarge shouted between bites of his own sandwich. "Don't think I don't know. You and your dirty Blues are plotting behind my back. Planting rusty weapons of destruction in the cells of Reds... dirty bastards..."

Flowers chewed slowly on his bread before answering. "Yeah... those silly rascals."

"Trying to whittle down my team, are you?"

"Oh, that wouldn't be any fun. It would be quite unsporting. Besides, no offence to your team, but it isn't exactly the most efficient in a match of soccer."

Before Sarge could continue his argument, the phone sitting on his desk rang. Sarge picked it up, knowing full-well it was probably his wife.

"Hello? ...No, dear, I can't pick up dinner. I'm workin' late tonight. ...what do you take me for, woman? I ain't no dirty lying Blue." Flowers stopped eating to listen. "Oh, that was one time! I lie one time about work and suddenly I'm a... oh, harsh. Give me a mo—I said give me a moment!" Sarge put his hand over the speaker. "Dammit, I wanted to go out drinking with the men."

"I'm not lying on your behalf again," Flowers said calmly. "Last time she caught us drinking was quite terrifying."

"Bullhonky. You're acting like my wife is the human equivalent of a... chupathingy."

"Chupacabra? I never said that."

"You were thinking it. Don't you insult my lady's honour."

"If I remember right, you were the one that once compared her to a mythological swamp monster."

"Don't judge me, Blue." Sarge uncovered the mouthpiece. "Sorry, dear, one of the guards just... oh? Oh... you heard that... now, I meant 'mythological swamp monster' in it's most positive sense! ...Of course, why would I want a frail little fruit fairy for a wife? Swamp monsters are much tougher. No, I didn't mean to... oh, son of a... she hung up on me!"

"You have my sympathy."

"Oh, can it." Sarge dropped the phone on the receiver and returned to his sandwich. "She's going to get me for that... I'll be finding mayo in my sandwiches for the next month." Flowers chuckled, and Sarge tossed one of the pencils lying on his desk at him in retaliation, grumbling about his enemies mocking him.

* * *

Donut found Caboose in his cell, going through his footlocker.

"Hey, Caboose. What're you doing?" Donut asked, standing in the doorway. He noticed that the smell of rotting pigeon, while still there, had lessened considerably. Caboose didn't answer right away, but after a few seconds he pulled out a book. The same book that Caboose had borrowed the day that Donut got thrown into solitary. Caboose held it out expectantly.

"You said you would read to me. Can you?" he asked, rocking back and forth on his feet. Donut scratched his head, and smiled sheepishly.

"I did say that... alright. Right now?"

"Yay!" Caboose jumped onto his cot, picking up the pillow and hugging it to his chest while Donut sat down on the end of his cot, opening the book. "Story time! I have not had story time for years!"

"When was the last time?" Donut asked, flicking through the book quickly to see if the book was a happy one or not.

"Uhm..." Caboose paused for several seconds, counting his fingers. "Three years. I think. Church said I have been here for two, last time I asked him. And it was... before that. I might be wrong. I can't count very good."

Donut flicked through the book, and even just skimming it realised it was a rather dark, violent book. Probably not suitable for Caboose. It'd be like reading particularly spooky Stephen King to a five-year-old. Donut flicked back to chapter one, and decided to just make his own happier story up. How hard could it be?

"Alright. This book is called... 'The Awesome Magician Who Had Fabulously Happy Times.'"

"I like that title."

"Awesome."


	34. Chapter 34: The Fabulous Magician

**Chapter Thirty-Four: The Awesome Magician Who Had Fabulously Happy Times**

Making up stories was harder than Donut had thought.

He had drawn a blank as soon as he came up with the title. He considered just repeating his Harry Potter fanfiction, but there was some content in that which would be even less suitable for Caboose than the original book he was avoiding reading. Mostly because of the numerous smutty chapters. Donut didn't want to have to explain what all the euphemisms meant (even if they were all just different words for weiner, it still didn't seem a valid way of building up Caboose's vocabulary.)

"Okay, um... once upon a time..." Donut started.

"On a dark and stormy night?"

"Sure, why not. There was an awesome wizard. And he lived in the kingdom of..." Donut paused, eyes trailing around the room. Most of what he saw was grey bricks and stone. "The Kingdom Of Grey Stones."

"I bet it's a very grey kingdom," Caboose said seriously.

"Oh, yeah. And it was ruled by a king..." Maybe because he had just indirectly named the kingdom after the prison, an image of Church immediately came to mind. Only in very fancy royal regalia, albeit with the same pissed off expression Church always wore. Suppressing a grin at the mental image, Donut added, "The king was always grumpy and angry at everybody, and he ruled his kingdom with an iron fist and a lot of swearing.

"Now, he had an advisor with a tongue of silver." This time, a mental image of Tucker appeared, clothed in the cloak and dark velvet outfit that all mysterious, silver-tongued advisors wore. "He was a sneaky advisor, rumoured to be able to talk the devil into setting himself on fire. And they were backed up by a knight." The inspiration for the next 'character' was easy, since he was sitting in front of Donut holding a pillow. "A knight who was feared for his strength... if not a little on the clueless side. And these three were untouchable by most of the kingdom. But there was a crazy jester who would not let that be."

Donut couldn't quite picture the jester. He still didn't know what O'Malley looked like.

"The jester was a malicious but mysterious man, who always wore a mask so no-one ever saw his face. By the time someone saw his face, it was far too late."

Caboose hugged the pillow tighter. "He sounds scary!"

"He was scary. Very much so." Donut tapped his foot against the floor thoughtfully. "Alright... so, one day... the crazy jester decided to get revenge on the king because... the reason wasn't known, it might have just been because the jester was absolutely insane. So, he forced the wizard into helping him by luring the knight away from the king's side. The wizard distracted the knight with pige—um, peacocks. Magic peacocks. And while he distracted the knight with magic peacocks, the jester attacked the king."

Donut didn't even quite realise that he was recounting exactly what had happened a few months ago, albeit with medieval characters instead of the people he knew, until he realised he had nearly started talking about when they had fed pigeons. Donut had indirectly just told Caboose that he really did lure him away on purpose that day.

Caboose rested his chin on his pillow. "Why did the wizard do that? If he was really an awesome wizard, he would have magicked away the mean jester. Or got the magic peacocks to eat his face."

"Well... uh... the jester was magical, too. And the wizard, though awesome... well, he wasn't always smart." Donut sheepishly grinned and shrugged. "So, you want me to keep reading or not?"

"Yes."

"Alright. So, the jester and his accomplice attacked the king with scr-daggers. Magic daggers."

"Magic daggers are much better than non-magic daggers. Magic ones are shinier."

* * *

"Chuuuuurch. Chuuuuuuuurch."

Church twitched angrily, trying to block his ears using his pillow. O'Malley had been basically repeating Church's name for hours upon hours, apart from the times he would get distracted by random insects wandering into his cell. At which point, Church would just hear giggling for a while as O'Malley caught the bugs and mutilated them, generally by ripping off some of their legs and watching them try to walk around. Or by ripping off just one of their wings. But that never lasted long. There was only so long O'Malley could be amused with tearing the legs or wings off an insect.

"Church. Church. Chuuuuuurch."

_Oh. My. God. Why won't he shut up? Dammit, why must he know how to annoy me so well? Cockbiting asshole._

Church would almost drift off to sleep before O'Malley would start calling again. Just over and over and over...

"Fucking douchebag," Church muttered under his breath.

"Oh, now that isn't very nice. If you would just answer the first time, instead of the five-hundredth time... I don't know what people keep seeing in you that's so attractive, you're the most crabby person I've ever met."

Church ignored him. Not that this deterred O'Malley from talking.

"Now, I can see what you saw in the pastry... in a physical sense, at least. He's pretty at least. I do commend your taste. Of course, the personality is a little too sugary for my liking. Should have acquired a croissant instead of a meringue."

Church rolled his eyes. If it had been anyone else but O'Malley, he probably would have continued arguing that he didn't like Donut. Hell, he hated Donut. Little fuckstick. Perhaps the hatred wasn't as strong as it was a couple of months ago, and he didn't hate Donut as much as Tucker did (which was odd, considering Church had more reason to hate Donut.) But the hatred was certainly there.

But arguing was pointless. O'Malley would just take it as 'denial'.

"Quite a pity, really. And I never got to have enough fun with that pastry. Every time I wanted to, something came up. First I needed him for my plotting, and then he headbutted me last time... my nose still hurts from that little incident."

There was another reason Church didn't try to correct O'Malley. Because O'Malley often used people that were important to his victims as leverage. O'Malley had never targeted Tucker before. Not intentionally. Maybe because Church was generally a jerk to him.

If he finds out that it's Tucker, not Donut, that matters to me... even if it's in a completely straight way... if he figures out Tucker is anything more than just some lackey... then he'd target Tucker. He'd target Tucker to get to me. Because O'Malley's a sick bastard who would do that, because it would hurt the most. He knows there's nothing else left that he can do to me.

"Of course, he does trust me now... even if he thinks I'm someone else... perhaps it would be easier to corner him in a dark room without any distractions like that blond ape. Ah, the possibilities. If only my screwdriver hadn't been misplaced again, I really do owe him a slashing... Although I wouldn't want to ruin his girly looks."

_Better he thinks it's Donut. I can deal with him hurting Donut. But not Tucker. I can't let him touch Tucker._

_I mean, not that I care that much. It's... just... impractical, is all._

* * *

"And so, an epic fight was planned against the dragons who had framed the wizard and gotten the king locked away in the dungeons. An epic fight with jetpacks! Because you need jetpacks when you fight really tall dragons, or else you wouldn't be able to reach high enough to chop of their heads," Donut insisted, shutting the book. He hoped Caboose hadn't noticed that Donut hadn't turned a single page during his reading.

"And then what happened?"

"Hey, you don't want to spoil the entire book, do you? We still got... well, years of being stuck in here. We have a really long time to read books, you don't want to finish them all in a day."

In actual fact, Donut had no idea what he was going to say next. He had just explained his entire time in prison thus far, though in obscure terms. But he'd reached the end of that. What was he going to say now? Probably something to do with epic fights of wizard on a jetpack versus evil dragons.

"Donut! That you?" Donut heard Simmons shout from a few cells down.

"Yes!"

"Thought you were in solitary." From where Donut was sitting, he could just see Simmons exit Grif's cell. He was combing his fingers through his unusually messy hair, trying to tidy it up. Simmons stopped in front of Caboose's cell, looking at the book Donut was holding. He raised an eyebrow.

"That book? You sure that's suitable?"

"I liked it. It had jetpacks in it," Caboose said mildly.

Simmons looked at Donut, who mouthed 'I'll explain later' at him. Simmons smiled wryly.

"Yeah. The jetpacks were great," he said. "How'd you get out of solitary? Someone admit to planting the screwdriver?"

"Well... kind of. It's a little weird."

"Explain over dinner or something, then."

"Oh god, I can't wait for that. The food will actually be warm... oh, I can't believe I'm practically drooling over the idea of regular prison food."


	35. Flashback: Chapter One

**A/N: For those who are reading this for the first time, this is the first of eight flashback chapters that detail the main six inmate's lives before prison. Angsty pasts ahoy, although with healthy doses of happiness (for some of them.) With that said, onwards!**

* * *

**Flashback – Part One**

At one in the morning, Church was doing what he often did at that time of the night. Trying to open the window of a house a few neighborhoods away from his own. Once he had pried the window open, he slipped quietly in.

No lights were on. No-one was up. Of course. Most people were asleep so late at night. Church knew one of the people who lived there, a kid from school. He knew that the kid had a young sibling, about three years old. It was precisely why he had chosen this house. If he was going to steal any money he could find, he might as well steal some other things he needed.

He found one of the parent's wallets. Lying around in the kitchen. Dumb place to leave it. He stole half the money inside, although he left the rest just in case they needed it for something. Let it not be said that Church was a complete asshole when it came to stealing.

He found the clothing pile. He filched what he needed from that.

He heard padding footsteps and a yip. He turned to see a little terrier standing behind him. The dog didn't look like he was on the verge of attacking. Church reached down and gave the dog a pat to convince it he was a friend. The dog slobbered all over his shoes and then padded away to have a nap. Easy enough.

Church crept back towards the window. It was dark. He knocked over a hat stand. Who the hell has hat stands nowadays? As he climbed out the window he heard someone in the next room say something about 'the fucking dog knocking things over again.' Church slid into the garden and started to head home.

Church had only been stealing for two years, since he was thirteen. But he was already good enough at it to not get caught. Of course, if he hadn't been good at it he wouldn't have lasted. And then who would take care of Eddie?

Church reached his house, in it's slightly rundown glory. It was clear that no-one was taking care of the garden anymore. Even though it had been only two years, the plants were overgrown and the only part that had been fixed was the walk to the house, just so Church wouldn't have to climb over the plants every time he needed to go out.

When he entered the house he heard the television still blaring. Church crept into the living room, trying to stay as silent as possible. His father wouldn't give a shit at the fact that Church had only arrived home at one in the morning, but sometimes he got in these moods...

Church's fear was unfounded that night, though. His dad had passed out on the sofa. Church switched off the television, quickly scoured the room for any bottles or objects that would hurt if his dad threw them at someone and moved them out to the front porch. No bits of broken glass anywhere. Good sign.

Church returned to the living room once more and checked that his pathetic excuse for a father was lying on his side (although if he threw up and choked during the night, maybe things would be better) before he carried the night's takings to the room he shared with his little brother.

"Eddie? You awake?" Church whispered. His two-year-old brother was sitting on the floor, drawing with crayons. Crayons that Church had stolen on a whim one time. They were quickly wearing down. Church made a mental note to nick some more next time he was out. Or hell, maybe even buy them. Find some crayons that weren't already worn down or missing the colour blue.

"Leo! Lookit!" Eddie babbled, holding up his latest picture. Church had absolutely no idea what it was, just a round shape with a lot of black stuff around it.

"Nice. What's it supposed to be?" Church asked, sitting down next to Eddie.

"Mama." Eddie pointed at a photo of their mother. Eddie couldn't remember a thing about their mother, but he insisted on having the photo there.

"Of course. Hey, I got you some clothes. Your old ones are too small." Church pulled out the child-sized clothes he had stolen. He could have bought them, but the clothes were right there, so he had just grabbed them while he was robbing the house. He hadn't noted the colours, however... it'd been too dark. Plus, his classmate had never actually mentioned the gender of the kid.

"Pink's girly colour," Eddie said, pointing at the t-shirt Church was holding.

"Heh, whoops. Oh, it's not like anyone will see. I'll find you some less girly colours as soon as I can, alright?"

"'Kay."

"Good kid. Now... what are you still doing up, it's fucking late!" Church mentally slapped himself for using the f-word in front of Eddie.

"Nooo, no nap."

"Come on." Church scooped up his little brother and dropped him on the bed. "If you don't go to bed at the right time, the monsters will come out of the closet and eat you. Rawr." Church grinned and tickled Eddie, who giggled and scrambled under the covers. "So, go to sleep like a good boy."

"Story time, story time!"

"Ack. Alright. You want the sappy stories or the badass ones?"

"The ones wiv dragons!"

"Badass ones, it is."

Eddie fell asleep about halfway through story time. He usually did. Out of the hundreds of times Church had read stories to him, he could count on one hand the amount of times he had managed to finish the story while Eddie was still awake.

Church put the book down and sighed heavily. Being a surrogate parent was hard. Maybe being sent to the orphanage would be better. It would just take one call to social services. But what if he and Eddie got separated? He had to keep it together, if only for the sake of his little brother. Had to make everything seem normal so that no-one would come and check.

Church tucked Eddie in before pulling out his sleeping bag and rolling it out on the floor.

* * *

At the age of eleven, Simmons gave up on impressing his father. He'd tried. Oh god, had he tried. Because it would have been great to have some approval in his life. Or at least approval that wasn't dished out with a fake smile that belonged on an advertisement.

It wasn't a huge event that made him give up. It was just one too many times of the same old, same old. Simmons would go to school, study, do his best and more often than not get top marks, especially in the more 'logical' subjects. But, of course, he never did well in sports. And that was what mattered to his father.

His family was, on the outside, perfection. His father was a businessman who always wore an impeccable suit, worked hard to bring the bread to the table and kept a respectable front for the whole neighborhood to admire. His mother was the classic at-home wife and mother, kind and subservient. His older sister was pretty and popular, if a little air-headed. They were all the kind of people that only existed on those advertisements they had in the fifties. The perfect, idealized family.

His dad probably wanted an athletic, confident son to complete the set. Instead, he got a quiet, neurotic nerd for a son. He got Simmons.

That day, Simmons followed his sister, who was babbling happily about some guy who had asked her out, through the door. His mother was in the kitchen. Wasn't she always? His sister continued talking. Simmons just tuned it out. It wasn't like anyone ever said anything actually important. His mother would ask his sister how was school, with that same happy, not-a-care-in-the-world smile. And his sister would respond in kind. Like mother, like daughter.

"Dick? Are you listening?" his mother asked. Same smile.

"What? Oh... yeah. Um. What were you saying?"

"How was school?"

Simmons dutifully handed over his latest test results. His mother didn't examine it particularly well, she just took note of the score.

"High scores. Well done," she said cheerfully. Of course she did, Simmons couldn't recall an unhappy tone in her voice. Ever. It was the exact same response for the last hundred tests he had handed to her. Same inflection, same expression... nothing changed. "Your father will be proud of you."

_Do you seriously believe that?_

At this point, Simmons was still just a little bit hopeful that his father would say something more than the same old, same old. When his father walked into the house, briefcase in hand, impeccable suit and the same smile, and everyone came to greet him, just because that was what they were supposed to do...

And his mother would say, "Dick got another high score today, see?" And his father would quickly glance at it.

"Yeah, well done. So, how's the football team going?" His father would switch subjects almost immediately. And then Simmons would have to admit the truth.

"Uh... good. Sort of."

"Are they taking you off the bench yet?"

"Ah, well... no."

"Well, you'll get there, sonny. You just have to try harder."

Simmons hated football. Normally he kept quiet about it, but it was just one time too many of the same bullshit about how he'd eventually make it. "Um, Father, I... I don't want to play football. I want to quit the team."

There was a short silence. But goddamn, was it awkward. No-one ever protested in their family. No one ever said anything negative. Everyone acted like they were expected to. And the son was not supposed to drop out of anything, least of all the football team.

His mother quickly raised her voice and said dinner was ready. The conversation started up again like Simmons had never said anything. Because for someone to act even just a little out of the ordinary was absurd in their family.

They were a perfect family on the outside. But if Simmons was completely truthful... The smiles never changed. There was no real reactions to things. They never said anything even slightly out of line. Nothing changed. They were like the happy photos taken of families and nothing else. Like the families on those shows where the worst thing that ever happened was that the television occasionally broke. Pretty and perfect on the outside. Absolutely nothing beneath.

Robots. They might as well have been robots. Simmons couldn't live up to the standards of a family of robots. He didn't even look similar, and there was no way he could act like that. He couldn't be the perfect son. And to be honest, he didn't want to. He didn't want to be a creepy, continually smiling human doll. He wanted to be an actual person. He wanted approval from someone who could do something besides smile.

The day after he announced he wanted to quit the football team, Simmons borrowed a large stack of books on robots and computers to investigate the possibility that his family really was comprised of robots. Just microchips and wires.

The investigation didn't pan out. But he did discover a strong fascination with machines and robots after that. In the end, robots were less strange to him than his own family.

* * *

Seven-year-old Tucker was adorable. As long as he held back the plentiful vocabulary of swearwords that he had already learned at his tender age (mostly from his mother and her 'customers') he could charm pretty much any adult he met. It's amazing what a cute kid can do to someone's reasoning abilities.

It was actually far harder to con another child. They didn't squeal over how cute other kids were. Tucker didn't try conning other kids much. But the ten-year-old kid taunting him while riding behind him on his shiny, new bike was just too good a target.

And damn, did Tucker want that bike.

"Why don't you stay and talk, Vern? Off in a hurry to get the best meal you can out of a trash can?" the kid sneered, still riding behind him. Tucker had tried riding away from him, but the kid clearly had nothing better to do. Tucker turned around and hit the brakes on his shitheap of a bike.

"Eating out of a trashcan tastes better than anything your mum could cook," Tucker retorted.

"Oh yeah? At least my mother can afford more than that rusty mess of a bike."

Rusty mess? Really?" Tucker grinned, and started pedaling around the other kid. "Shows what you know about bikes, don't it? Fucking nothing. But, guess you wouldn't understand, your family doesn't have a fucking brain cell between you." Tucker pedaled away, and heard the kid continue pedaling after him.

"What'd you say? I'm smarter than you, and dad says your family is nothing but poor trash. How would you know more, huh? What's so special about your bike, then?"

"Money don't equal brains, stupid. And my bike? It's a fucking antique." Tucker knew perfectly well that the kid probably wouldn't know what antique meant. Tucker only knew because he had put his mother's 'antique' clock in the sink once to wash off some jello he had accidentally dropped on it. And also because the only book they had in the house was the dictionary.

"Antique? What's that mean?"

"Antique. It means it's old. Fucking timeless. You know what that means? It don't fucking go out of style, because it's valuable. People wouldn't sell something this old unless it was actually worth something, you know." Tucker eyed the other kid's shiny, new bike. The height of fashion. "Sure, your bike is 'the coolest thing in cool'. At the moment. You know, with the bright lights that don't actually do anything and the gimmick handles that you never use." Tucker had no idea what the word gimmick meant, but he said it with a derisive tone and hedged his bets that the other kid didn't know what it meant, either.

"Yeah, so what? My bike's the one that's awesome at the moment. Not your rusty heap!"

"Totally. Your bike is the most awesome thing out there, for a few weeks maybe. Then some other gimmicky bike with a new paint job will show up, and suddenly your bike will be old and outdated. But my bike doesn't fucking get outdated, because it's a fucking antique. It's an authentic 1980's Roadgrinder." Tucker just pulled the name of the bike out of his ass. But if he said things like he thought they were true, then other people would think they were true as well.

"So... so what? It's still an old..."

"Hey, but your bike? Sure. Height of cool for all of eight seconds. I guess you could stay with that, if you don't mind looking like a bitch once a new fancy bike comes out." Tucker resumed pedaling around the kid, who didn't look so happy with his bike anymore. "So? Who has the better bike now?"

"Well... um... my bike is still... hey, so your bike is valuable, yeah?"

"It's a fucking authentic Roadgrinder, of course it is."

"Well... I was thinking maybe I'd like to trade for it."

"What, my bike for yours? You fucking insane, I just told you mine was valuable." Tucker crossed his arms and pretended he was thinking about it. "Well. Throw in twenty dollars and that candy bar in your pocket, and I might consider it..."

Fifteen minutes later, Tucker was pedaling away on the other kid's bike, while the other kid stood there with Tucker's old shitheap of a bike and feeling like he struck gold.

His mother noticed the difference between bikes.

"Vern! Why's there a red bike in the garage?" shouted his mother's slurred voice. Tucker couldn't quite recall the last time he had heard his mother speak without slurring. She was never sober, at least not when he was around.

"Oh... I painted it. Borrowed some paint from the kid down the street," Tucker shouted back.

"Oh. Okay... Vern... Vern, where are you? Come siddown... siddown, we'll have dinner. I'll turn on the stove!"

"That's okay, I can do it!" Last time Tucker's mother had tried to cook dinner while drunk, she had set half the kitchen on fire. It had taken years to replace all the stuff that had burned up. Although there had been a bonus: his mother had cut down on the alcohol during that time to help pay for it, although she hadn't given it up entirely. But her just being lightly buzzed was a nice change from constantly tanked.

Tucker and his mother made quite the picture. A seven-year-old standing on a stool so he could reach the stove, cooking some unidentifiable meat that tasted so strange that Tucker wouldn't have been surprised if he was told it was zebra or something equally 'exotic', while his mother (wearing the skanky outfit and make-up she wore while she worked the streets, as she usually left the house right after dinner) stumbled around the house holding a bottle in a paper bag and regularly bumping into doorways. It was not a scene which one associated with 'happy, functional family.'

But Tucker was absolutely fine with it.

"Dinner!"

"Aw, shweet," Tucker's mother mumbled, trying to sit down and missing the chair. "God-fucking-dammit, who moved my fucking chair?"

Tucker sat down, prodding at his own slab of mystery meat. He didn't say anything, although his mother continued to swear at the 'horse-fucking bastard who moved her chair.'

Once his mother had finished, she unsteadily climbed to her feet.

"Well... 'm off. I'll be back in the mornin', Vern. Give... give your mama a hug, alright? And go to bed 'fore midnight, okay?"

Tucker gave his mother a hug and watched her stumble out the door, before turning on the television and switching it over to one of his favourite cartoons.

Tucker knew his home wasn't run 'the normal way.' He knew that because kids made fun of him, and sometimes adults shook his head and looked at him with pitying faces. 'Oh, look, it's that Tucker boy. I hear his mother's an alcoholic prostitute. Poor baby.'

But so what? Because he knew how to do shit. He knew how to get shit. Didn't matter that kids teased him for his mother's occupation and his rusty bike and second-hand clothes. When they all got older, and Tucker was the one who knew how to do shit, who knew how to talk his way into the big time while the others were working in fast-food joints... who'd be laughing then?

He wouldn't have learnt how to get things if he'd been coddled like they had. So his life was fucking awesome.

* * *

Grif hadn't always been so incredibly lazy. When he was thirteen he had been the most energetic kid around. If only because he needed that much energy to chase around the guys that were after Sister.

Admittedly, Sister was only ten, as were the guys. The furthest it ever got at that age was what Sister referred to as 'sharing cooties'. Namely, holding hands and the very occasional chaste kiss. When Grif would later reflect on that, he couldn't help but think 'those were the days'. At least cooties was better than multiple STDs.

But even then, Grif had always been looming over his sister's shoulder and glowering at whichever one of Sister's classmates she wanted to 'share cooties' with. And if they kept it up, occasionally Grif would have to yell and shout and wave his fists a bit to scare them off.

One wouldn't think that would take up much energy, but it really did. Even back then, there were a lot of guys. Sister was quite pretty, after all. Grif didn't remember what their dad (or dads, Grif had no idea if they shared the same father or not) looked like, but to get a girl like Sister out of his mother (who was both fat and had a plentiful beard that would make a lumberjack proud) her dad must have been ridiculously handsome. Unfortunately, Grif inherited most of his looks from his mother.

The boy problem only got worse when they moved away from Hawaii. Probably because they both looked different from the other kids. Just made Sister even more noticeable.

Maybe Grif was a little too protective. Like one time when he had actually caught one of Sister's classmates and Sister in the act of kissing. To say Grif went ballistic may have been an understatement. He chased the kid up a tree. Sister wasn't happy about this.

"Dex! Why'd you do that? Why you have to be such a bossy... boss-arounder?" Sister whined, on the way home.

"Because that's my job, dumbbutt. What'd you think?"

"You suck! I liked him!"

"Oh, bull. Just like you liked the last thirty-eight?"

"It was not thirty-eight!"

"Uh, yes it was. I counted. Don't make me list them all."

Sister crossed her arms and pouted. "Creepy."

"It's not creepy! I'm just looking out for you!"

"By stalking every guy I go five metres near? Lay off!" Sister shoved Grif lightly, to make her point. "I can take care of myself!"

"Bullshit!"

"Your face is!"

"No, your face is!"

"Your mum's face is!"

"Sis, we have the same mum."

"Uh... so?"

Grif slapped his forehead as they entered their apartment. While Sister ran to her room to pout, Grif checked the fridge for notes.

_Dex – food in the fridge. Heat it up. Won't be back until late. Might be getting a job soon. - Mum._

Grif tossed the note in the bin before reaching into the fridge. His mother was drawing on pension at the moment, still looking for a decent job. She wasn't having much success. Grif had suggested she shave her beard, but his mother had ignored him.

"Hey, Sis! We're having noodles for dinner! Again!"

"Aw, I hate noodles!"

The next day was no better. Grif chased around a few more kids, and the walk home was mostly arguing. When Grif got home, there was another note on it.

_Dex – Joined the circus. Will be back in a few years. Money will come in the mail. Food in the fridge, heat it up. - Mum._

It was a pretty casual note for abandonment.

Grif tossed it in the bin, albeit a lot harder than normal. Looking into the fridge, he realised he didn't know how to cook anything but leftovers and noodles.

"Sis! We're... we're having noodles again!"

"I hate noodles! Can you tell Mum to leave something else?"

Grif opened his mouth to tell the truth, but found that it caught in his throat. Instead, he said, "I'll tell her next time I see her." Neglecting to add, 'that'll be in a few years because she just joined the circus and left us here.'

Grif shook his head and pulled out the noodles. The full impact of being abandoned hadn't really hit. At the moment, it didn't seem like a big deal. His mother was barely at home, anyway. Just occasionally in the mornings, she never seemed to get home while they were still awake.

Grif wasn't quite sure how he was going to manage the cleaning. Or cooking. Maybe he'd have to channel a little of the energy that went towards chasing away random guys to doing housework.

Man, this was gonna suck.

Grif dropped a cup of noodles in front of Sister. He debated telling her the truth, before deciding to tell her once he'd grown used to the idea himself. Shouldn't take more than a few days...

* * *

Caboose's family was quite a picture when driving down the street. Regardless of the year, there was usually at least eight kids sitting in the back. Which was probably illegal, but they had yet to be pulled up on it. Whoever called shotgun would be sitting in the front with Caboose's mother. Who, again regardless of the year, was usually pregnant with another kid and occasionally forgot to remove her slippers and hair rollers before leaving the house.

Add into that the fact that the father of the family (though stepfather to roughly half of the family) looked a lot like a lumberjack, that their house had newspaper for curtains and there were always gumboots and a rusty lawnmower on the front lawn... their family was often referred to as a pack of poor hicks.

They weren't really poor, it was just that such a large family (two parents, thirteen children not including the ones who had moved out, as well as a bunch of cats) was hard to provide for with a single paycheck. As for the hick part... it was hard to argue with. They didn't even have electricity half the time.

But it was a happy home. And Caboose got along really well with his stepfather. Being the only other male in the family, his stepfather insisted on him and Caboose engaging in manly activities such as wood-chopping and keeping the car working. So when his stepfather arrived home, he'd drag Caboose out to help him carry wood from the car trunk.

"Wood getting too heavy, Michael?"

"Nope!"

"Good boy." His stepfather hefted wood onto his shoulder. He was short, but very stocky, and he had a huge beard. He claimed that a bird had tried to build a nest in it while he was sleeping once. "Wanted to talk to you about school."

"Yeah?"

"What's this I hear about you bullying other kids?"

"Nothing. Didn't happen." Even back then, it was Caboose's default response to any accusation.

"Your teacher called and told me you'd been stealing lunch money. And giving children swirlies. Come on, you know that isn't the manly way."

"I don't have to be manly until I'm eighteen. That's eight years," Caboose told his stepfather.

"Regardless of that, picking on people smaller than you... and seeing as you're already pretty tall, that might be almost everyone later on... it ain't good. You getting what I'm saying?"

"No."

"Ah jeez. Look, just don't pick on kids anymore. Right?"

Caboose averted his eyes, shifting the log in his hands. "I won't. I wasn't in the first place." Caboose didn't mean it, and he'd be dunking kid's heads in the toilets again within a week. His father shook his head and sighed.

"Well, guess that's as good a response as I'll get. Come on, hup!" Once Caboose had dropped his wood, his father picked him up and slung him over one shoulder. "Hah-hah, I can still lift you! And your mother says I'm falling out of shape... heh."

Caboose's stepfather strode into the house, carrying Caboose over his shoulder. Caboose was then dropped amid a swarm of children and cats as his stepfather climbed over them towards his wife. That's all the floor of the main room was. Children, cats, toys and random objects that didn't even belong inside, like the three garden gnomes sitting in the corner.

Even if the noise probably would have made Caboose deaf before he was twenty-five, Caboose could not be happier with his family. Except for one part. That being his real father.

Caboose's family wasn't just odd where size and gender ratios were concerned. All of Caboose's sisters who were older than him shared a father. That father had died three years before Caboose was born. Mama had married Caboose's stepfather two years after Caboose was born, and so all of Caboose's sisters who were younger than him were his.

But as for Caboose's father... as Caboose understood it (with all the logic that a slightly dim ten-year-old could have in such matters) his mother had caught pregnancy from him and then his father ran off to 'give pregnancy to other ladies.' Or run a wrestling ring. Caboose was fuzzy on the details, all he knew was that a lot of strange women who didn't wear much clothing were often at his father's house.

Every week, his father would call, often before a weekend that Caboose had to go stay with him. A typical phone conversation went like so.

"Michael! Hey, listen... you're staying over on the weekend, aren't you? I'm sorry, I lost track of the days, you know... it's this weekend, isn't it?"

Caboose would always consider lying and saying no. But Mama told him not to lie, and she would find out if he did.

"Yeah."

"Oh, okay. Just a second." He heard his father shout at someone off phone. "Sorry, you can't stay for the weekend, Fiona! ...No, I know your name is Felicity, I was just testing you... oh, don't take it that personally! Hang on, give me a few minutes to finish talking to my kid. Geez, women. Anyhow, what do you say we go somewhere. I don't know, how about we go bowling or something?"

Of course, it was more than likely his father would be distracted by something and forget where they were going. He often got distracted, normally by a random woman walking past. Especially if they were wearing skimpy clothes. Most likely they would end up lost somewhere in the city because his father had forgotten where they were going.

"Uh..."

"Super. Hey, um... you wouldn't mind if I had a special friend over on Sunday, would you? It—hang on. No, Felicity, I didn't mean in the fuckbuddies sense, I swear—oh, would you stop overreacting? Sorry, I gotta go."

And often his father, in his usual absent-minded way, would accidentally drop his phone on the table instead of the receiver, and Caboose would be able to quite clearly hear the incredibly loud argument between his father and whatever strange woman was at his house that day. Usually involving numerous rude words and some stuff Caboose didn't understand.

He wished he could ignore his real father and just pretend that his stepfather was his regular father. But Mama kept telling him that family was too important to pretend that it doesn't exist.

* * *

People would always blame certain things for Donut's femininity, but to tell the truth he had always been like that. He'd always liked flowers and preferred dolls to action figures.

When future parents came to visit the orphanage, Donut would always try to look pretty so one of the parents might look at him and decide to take him home. Unfortunately, most of the people who came looking for a son tended to be weirded out by the fact that Donut had a flower in his hair and was clothed in lightish red.

There had been a period of time when Donut had tried wearing more traditional male clothes. But he'd gone the other extreme and worn a backwards cap, footy jersey and sunglasses that he had borrowed from the charity bin. That hadn't worked either.

Donut had even borrowed the clothes of one of the girls at the orphanage and tried to disguise himself as an adorable little girl. It had actually worked until one of the caretakers had called him 'Franklin.' That had tipped the parents off. Stupid caretaker had to ruin his awesome plan. He would have committed to pretending to be a girl if it meant getting a mother.

After the adults left, sometimes taking a kid with them, Donut would go and sit in the little garden. He would usually make flower chains. Which would more often than not be crumpled up by one of the kids that picked on Donut for being excessively girly.

Donut kept the ones he could, until they rotted and the caretakers got annoyed for finding tattered, rotted flowers in his bed.

Every single time some parents showed up, Donut got really excited. He really wanted a mother. A father would be okay. He wouldn't object to that. But having a mother was the greatest thing Donut could imagine. The only memory he had of his own was brown hair and a peppermint sort of smell.

Then one day, just a bit after his eighth birthday, Donut had been building more flower chains (for lack of anything better to do) and one of the local bullies had taken it off him.

"Give it back!" Donut shouted, trying to reach for the flower chain. It wasn't like the chain was really worth anything, but it was the principle of the thing. You didn't just go around stealing other kid's flower chains. That wasn't cool.

"Aw, little Frankie wants his precious flowers! Come and get them, Frankie!" Franklin 'Frankie' Donut. He wasn't sure why they never used his last name as an insult, but maybe it was just because 'Frankie' was easier to say in a mocking tone.

Donut jumped up, trying to reach the flowers. Why'd he have to be so short? Donut considered trying to hit the bully, but he was bigger and his hair wasn't long enough to pull on. Donut thought it was worth a try, anyway. All it achieved was Donut being shoved into the mud.

"Hey! Stop that!" someone yelled.

The bully dropped the flower chain, crushed it with his foot and rubbed it into the ground, before running off. Donut sat up and started peeling the remains of his flower chain from the ground, not looking up at the woman who'd told the bully to go away. He assumed it was one of the caretakers until she spoke again.

"Oh my god, you're adorable."

Donut looked up, confused. A young woman with long blonde hair was gazing down at him. Despite her young age, she had crow's feet in the corners of her eyes, but the type that happened because of continuous cheerfulness rather than stress.

Donut shifted uncomfortably. Normally, he would immediately respond with enthusiasm. Of course, normally he wasn't covered in mud and holding a bunch of tattered flowers. Flowers of which the colours clashed, nonetheless.

"Hi."

"What's your name, little guy?" she asked kindly.

"Uhm... Franklin Donut."

"Always use your full name? Do you want me to call you Franklin or Donut?"

"I kinda like Donut. That's what the nicer kids call me."

"Really... you like flowers, Donut?"

"Yes. They're pretty."

"They are, aren't they?" The woman tilted her head for a moment, studying him, before smiling a bit wider. "My name's Liz Delano. Would you like to come and have a chat with us?" She held out her hand towards him. Donut eyed it for a moment, confused. Why would she want to talk to him unless... she was actually considering adoption? Even though he was covered in mud and holding a bunch of ragged flowers, she was actually considering adoption. Donut stared at the hand before a grin split his face.

"Sure!"

"Great! Come on!"

The woman didn't seem to mind that Donut was still covered in mud and that it was now getting on her hands. Donut clung to her arm as they both walked towards the building. He was positively giddy with excitement. Someone was actually considering adopting him, and he didn't even have to pretend to be a girl this time. He was getting a mother! And maybe a father, she had said 'us'...

"Julie, I found one! Isn't he cute?" The woman said happily as she walked through the door. Donut peeked around the woman's legs to see another woman walking towards him. Dark-haired, the serious face said she was probably a stern parent. But not in the evil 'carries-a-strap' way. Donut wondered why the woman he was following was telling another parent how cute he was. Maybe she was bragging?

The other woman crouched in front of him. After a few moments, she smiled. A small smile, but a nice one.

"Hi. She took a shine to you, hm? What's your name, then?"

It eventually clicked with Donut. Both of them were the parents... two women. Two mothers.

Two mothers?

Donut could have fainted with joy right then and there.

Being taken away from the orphanage, clinging to the hands of his new mothers, was the happiest Donut had ever been in his life. Even if he had still been covered in mud.


	36. Chapter 35: Beatings

**Chapter Thirty-Five: Beatings**

Donut couldn't sleep.

He tried. He tossed and turned. He'd been happy to get out of solitary, to sleep in what he now considered his own bed, with or without the smell of vomit. But he couldn't sleep. Every time he drifted off, the same memories kept floating into his dreams.

He kept seeing his roommate's face.

Donut would wake up with a start and a whimper, and eventually fall back to sleep, but the process would repeat itself.

Kept seeing the moments leading up to the murder. Started off normally, just babbling at his roommate until normal, and then suddenly... Kept seeing his roommate trying to strangle him, kept feeling those hands tightening around his throat. Kept seeing the knife. Kept seeing the red. Not lightish red. Deep, rich red.

Donut would wake up, and go back to sleep.

He didn't just see the red... didn't just see his roommate's face. He kept hearing the screams. Kept smelling the thick, coppery blood. And worst of all, he kept feeling the blood on his hands.

Warm and sticky.

Donut woke up for the fifth time. He scratched at his hands. They weren't covered in blood, but he could swear he could still feel the warmth. Feel the stickiness. Donut kept rubbing his hands, scraping his nails along the flesh like it would remove the sticky sensation, similar to what he'd do when he got cake batter on them.

Why was the memory of the murder bothering him now? It hadn't done that for a while, and it had no reason to turn up in his head now.

Maybe his mind had just felt like it had to remind Donut of what he'd done. Just waiting until Donut started to forget there was blood on his hands, and then appeared and reminded him of that horrible warmth and that coppery smell.

Donut wondered if the others had nightmares about the people they'd killed. He sat up, clambered to his feet and shuffled closer to the wall.

"Simmons. Simmooooooons," he whispered.

"Fuck off, 'm sleeping," Simmons grumbled, his voice muffled by his pillow.

"Do you ever have nightmares about the people you killed?"

"The fuck kind of question is that? Go away, I'm not your mother..." A quiet snore after that suggested that Simmons had fallen asleep again.

Donut sat up for a while longer, still scraping at his hands. Afraid to go back to sleep, because then the bad memories would come back.

* * *

Church also couldn't sleep. But his reason for still being awake was different. Less haunting, and more plain fucking annoying.

Thump.

Church twitched and tried counting sheep.

Thump.

Counting sheep, it turns out, is too boring to put someone to sleep.

Thump.

Church didn't know what the fuck O'Malley was doing, but it sure was making a lot of noise. Other men locked in solitary were starting to get angry.

Thump.

"Hey, shut up!"

"The hell you doing, we're trying to sleep!"

"Motherfucker!"

Thump.

"You trying to get the guards to come down and hurt you?" Church muttered. "Dumbass. They're gonna beat you if you don't stop, and that's gonna keep me awake even longer."

There was a pause. Then...

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The noise just got louder. The inmates started making more of a racket. They made such a racket that the thumping noise actually seemed quiet in comparison, but Church could still hear it getting louder, like O'Malley was trying to outmatch the men yelling at him.

The door swung open. Footsteps. Church rolled off his cot and crouched down to look through his food slot as the lights came on. Church squinted through the sudden brightness as York's feet came into view. They paused, then turned back to the entrance to solitary. Church could barely hear the conversation over the noise that the other inmates were making.

"Light's on, Wash. You know, I can handle this myself, I'm not—"

"I'm coming with you."

"Okay, if you really think you have to, but he won't have cigarettes with him this time, I'm pretty sure he was checked..."

Wash's feet appeared and quickly made their way past York's.

He saw Wash's feet. York's feet trailing behind him. Wash raised his voice. Just a little.

"Be quiet."

The shouting immediately stopped, like the inmates had been turned mute.

"Nice," York said into the silence. "They're smarter than I thought." Wash had something of a reputation for being a tough motherfucker. Inmates weren't stupid enough to goad him.

Except one.

Thump.

"O'Malley, come on! Be quiet!" York said, rapping his fist on the door. Another thump was the only reply.

Wash reached down for his set of keys and paused. "I don't have the key. Not my shift down here."

York rolled his eyes. "Yeah, aren't you meant to be outside or something?"

"You can hear them from outside!"

"Move aside, Wash." He shoved Wash lightly aside, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wire.

"York, you know the warden doesn't approve of you picking open the locks. Neither do I, for that matter. It gives them ideas."

"Oh, pssh. Heard it before, man. Don't get your panties into a wad."

"I'm following regulations. Idiot. Don't you have a key?"

"Not my shift either. Don't know where the hell South's gone, I'm pretty sure it's her turn. Like you said, they're noisy. Waking up guys in the smuggler's block. Besides, even if I had the key... well, keys are boring. Why know how to lockpick if you're not going to use the skill?"

"Why do you know how to lockpick in the first place? That's a bit unsavory."

"My dad was a lock-nut. How else was I supposed to break into the closet and see what the Christmas presents were?" York finished unlocking the door. "Unlocked. You're welcome. Because I know you're thinking 'thank you, York, you're the most awesome guy ever.'"

"You wish." Wash pulled the door open. "O'Malley, what are you doing?"

O'Malley was sitting on his cot, holding the side of it and rocking, continually slamming the other end into the wall. He was grinning.

"Washington. Fantastic. And York? Oh, I'm being spoilt today. Tonight. Whatever. Hello, York. How's your eye?"

O'Malley was interrupted by Wash smacking him hard with his nightstick.

"Wash, take it easy," York said quietly.

"Easy? He slashed your eye, and your only response is 'take it easy?' You're insane."

"You're the one who was going 'you can't do that because of regulations'. I think brutally beating inmates is one of those things you aren't supposed to do. Just saying."

"Yes, listen to your cyclops friend, Washington."

Smack.

"How rude..." O'Malley spat out. He was holding his nose. "That's the second time in the last week that someone has hit my nose."

"Why were you slamming your cot against the wall? Answer before I count to one." Wash asked calmly, like he hadn't just smashed O'Malley's face twice.

"I hate interrogation. Can't we just write him up and be done with it?" York sighed.

Church moved an inch away from the food slot. Wash could be reasonable up to a point, but he had no patience where O'Malley was concerned, and often things got bloody when Wash was pushed too far.

"I thought I might dig my way through freedom. Of course, I can't reach the dirt through these bricks, so I thought if I smashed my way through the wall, I might reach the dirt. Silly plan, I know. But I was bored," O'Malley said casually. "How are you? Still depressed? You were awfully distant a couple of months ago." He sighed melodramatically. "The beatings just weren't the same."

"Trying to dig your way out. Escape attempt, albeit a..."

"Half-assed one?" York suggested.

"Right. That would add five years onto your sentence and put you in solitary. But... you're in here for life and already in solitary. Hm."

"Oh, I know what this is leading up to. Can't you just punch me in the stomach and be done with it? You're so predictable, Washington. You're a violent man, and I do admire that in a person... but you have no imagination." O'Malley sighed. "Even struggling is boring. Just be done with it."

"I really can't say you didn't ask for it." Wash raised his nightstick and smashed O'Malley over the head. It was hard enough to actually knock out a grunt of pain, even though O'Malley had been fully expecting it. But not quite hard enough to knock him out. O'Malley touched his head, blinking in a disorientated way. He was bleeding, and he could swear he was seeing double...

"Ow. Think you got carried away? They won't let you off on this forever," York said conversationally.

"I know," Wash replied. He stepped back. "Lock the door."

"Uh, shouldn't we take him up to the infirmary?"

"No. We're leaving him in there."

"Wash, are you fucking insane? He's bleeding from the head. He might die! I've got no love for O'Malley, but if he dies and you're held responsible... they'll fire you if they don't outright arrest you!"

"Who's going to tell? They won't believe O'Malley. And as for the other inmates..." Church saw Wash step towards his own cell, and felt a tap on his door. "Church, isn't it? You going to squeal?"

Church snorted. "Hell no."

"You see? Even the prison snitch won't."

"I'm a blackmailer!" Church roared, as Wash started to walk away. York glanced after Wash and slid the door shut on O'Malley, locking it quickly. Church shifted, moving back to his cot. Reminding himself, not for the first time, not to get on Wash's bad side. He was one cold motherfucker.

* * *

Donut asked Simmons the same question he had asked during the night at breakfast that morning. As he was not being awoken at three in the morning this time, Simmons was a little more receptive to questioning. But his answer was short.

"No."

"No? You've never had any dreams or anything?" Donut asked, passing his fruit to Grif in exchange for Grif's cereal.

"Ah." Simmons raised his spoon and shook it slightly at Donut. "That's not what you said. See, you asked if I'd had 'nightmares' about them. To answer that, specifically... no."

"You've... had good dreams about it?" As Donut asked this, he shifted just a little bit further from Simmons. Simmons rolled his eyes.

"No, don't look at me like I'm crazy. Only dream I had about... that asshole... had something to do with robots and some farmers. He just happened to be strung up in the background with his innards hanging out."

Donut lowered his spoonful of cereal. "Oh god. That's gross."

"Oh, don't be a whiner," Grif said. "Not like we actually disembowled him." A weird smile appeared on his face, and he added under his breath, "He wishes."

"Never mind, forget I asked! You guys are scaring me," Donut grumbled. "And now I can't eat, what am I supposed to do with the cereal?"

"Pass it back this way," Grif said, holding out his tray so Donut could put the cereal back.

"You just recounted a man strung up with his guts hanging out, and you're both still eating. Weird. You guys are weird. Seriously. Weird."

Simmons grinned. "Calling the kettle black, wouldn't you say?"

"Aw, shut up." Donut stared down at his food, then at his hands. He rubbed them a bit, before shoving his tray towards Grif. "Here, have it."

"What's up with you?"

"Nothing." Donut looked at his hands again, and shook his head. "I... I need to wash my hands, that's all."

* * *

"God, who do they think they are, bitching me out? It was North's turn to guard down here, but no, they're all 'why didn't you shut up the inmates last night, South? It was noisy as fuck, where were you?' Not my fucking fault that they only used last names on the shift list. And now, 'feed the crazies, South.' I'm not a nurse at a mental hospital... Jeez."

South pushed the tray of food and medication along, grumbling angrily under her breath. She slid a plate of food underneath Church's door before turning to O'Malley's. Of course O'Malley had to be down here when it was her turn. Jackass. He was probably going to bite her fingers, just like he always did to North. Assface.

South grasped her keys, sliding the right key into the lock and opening the door.

"Alright, O'Malley, you gonna play nicely this ti—oh, motherfucker!" South dropped the cup of pills in shock. "Shit." She approached O'Malley, wary that it was some kind of trick, but that blood sure looked real.

O'Malley's eyes were open and he was grinning, but it was a weak grin. He was chalk white and blood had dried in little rivers down his face, making him look even crazier than usual. He had wrapped his pillowcase and blanket around his head in some sort of makeshift bandage. It looked like some bizarre, blood-stained turban.

"Surprise."

South could only repeat her earlier sentiment. "Shit." O'Malley grinned before his eyes closed and he passed out.

Let it not be said that he chose undramatic moments to pass out.


	37. Chapter 36: Morning Greetings

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Morning Greetings**

Doc hummed to himself as he fished in his pockets for the infirmary keys. After pushing aside loose change and a tiny cat toy which he had brought to put up in the infirmary in order to try and make the place so many inmates died in a little more cheerful, he found the infirmary key and pushed it into the lock. Only to discover the door was already unlocked.

"Huh... weird," Doc muttered. He pushed open the door and took two steps inside.

"Morning," he heard a voice greet him nonchalantly.

"Aaaah!" Doc jumped away from the voice, and his eyes shot to O'Malley, who was lying on one of the cots. And immediately clapped his hand over his mouth. "Oh. My. God."

Doc was too shocked to even apologise for saying 'God' and offending all those who followed Christian religions by taking the Lord's name in vain, as well as all those who didn't because... well, they might be offended, who knew.

"Isn't this a great way to start your morning?" O'Malley said weakly. "Admittedly, getting horribly beaten isn't my favourite method of seeing you... and I'm probably going to pass out soon, so... hopefully you'll be competent enough to stop me from dying. I've been bleeding all night, so that might be difficult."

"What happened to you?" Doc quickly found the drawer with the bandages, as O'Malley was still wearing a makeshift turban. Which looked ridiculous, and in any other situation (any situation which didn't involve copious amounts of blood, at least) Doc might have thought it funny. But the bloodstains counteracted that.

"Oh, you know how it is... I either tell a lie and you believe me or I tell the truth and you don't believe me. Why bother explaining?"

Doc sighed. "Tell me. I'll believe you."

"Oh, well in that case... Last night Santa Claus kicked my door down and said 'O'Malley, you are on the naughty list.' And then he attacked me with a giant candy cane and left me for dead. Very spry for a fat, old man in a red suit."

"Very funny."

"And yet you said you'd believe me. It's not good to lie, Doc."

Doc had a strange sense of deja vu. Maybe because the situation was strangely similar to the one last week. O'Malley covered in blood and Doc wiping it off. Although this one was more serious, and O'Malley had yet to try and tackle him this time. He didn't look like he would be... his eyes were a bit glassy, and they kept shutting, like he was having problems staying awake.

"Are you going to tell me who really did this to you?"

"Nn." O'Malley's eyes closed again as the infirmary door swung open and South walked in.

"Well, about time you got here! Not that I need to tell you or anything, but he's in pretty bad shape." South gestured at O'Malley while Doc dipped a cloth in water. "I carried him up here. He didn't try to bite me or struggle or anything, even when he woke up after I accidentally dropped him. Twice."

"That bad? How'd it happen?"

"How should I know?"

"Wasn't it your shift last night?"

"It was North's damn shift, alright? They need to start putting first names on that stupid shift list! Not the point! He was just all bloody when I opened the door this morning. Not a good start to the day," South told Doc. "Is he gonna die? Good riddance if he does."

"I don't know. Help me out, get the blood off him, would you?" Doc handed over the damp cloth he was going to use to wipe the blood away.

"Try it and I'll bite your fingers off," O'Malley whispered, eyes still shut.

"Yeah, not a chance. I'm running late on feeding the rest of the crazies as it is, thanks to him." South tossed the cloth back. Doc pointed at the tray of medication he had left out the previous night.

"Then take those down to the prisoners. Names are on the cups."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Didn't sign up for this shit..." South picked up the tray and left, grumbling under her breath. Doc sighed and turned back to O'Malley, who wasn't moving. He had passed out, but he was still breathing at least.

"Alright... keep breathing, you'll be fine. And you better not stop breathing just because I told you to breathe," Doc told him, even though he wasn't sure if O'Malley could hear him or not. And to himself he muttered, "Calm down. I can do this. No-one's died under my watch recently. I can do this. I can do this. He isn't going to die on me. Hopefully."

* * *

Donut rinsed his hands in the bathroom sink.

He could hear the showers going, although at this time it tended to be used by very few inmates. Most of them were eating at this time. Inmates normally visited after work, since depending on the work it tended to involve getting pretty sweaty. Donut tended to avoid the showers when they were crowded. He may be somewhat used to prison now, but the old fear about being forced to 'bend over and pick up the soap' hadn't gone away.

Occasionally inmates would walk past, wandering in to use the toilets or wash their own hands. There was always a guard standing in the corner of the room in view of the showers, making sure no-one tried to strangle anyone else and making sure they kept to a time limit. As Donut scrubbed at his hands with the cheap, scratchy soap, he heard a crash, a yelp and then Caboose's voice.

"Ow. Stupid slippery tiles... Captain Buttermuffin!" Caboose wandered out of the shower section, his hair dripping, holding his jacket. Donut saw him in the mirror while he continued to wash his hands. "You are not usually in here at this time. Are you okay?"

"Sure, I'm... what? Nothing's wrong," Donut insisted, still holding his hands under the water.

"I heard you making eep noises. During bedtime."

"Oh. Just nightmares, it's fine." Donut watched the water run over his hands thoughtfully. Caboose tried drying his hair with his jacket. Didn't work too well, the fabric didn't absorb water that well.

"You are washing your hands?"

"Yeah. Just felt like it."

Caboose stood there for a while, rubbing his hair with his jacket. "You felt like washing your hands for several minutes?"

"Yeah."

"You are weird."

"Mmhm." Donut gazed downwards at his hands, then looked at Caboose. "You... you ever get nightmares about the people you killed?"

"No. I did not kill anyone."

"Right. Then... did you get nightmares about the people who fell over around you?"

In the reflection of the mirror, Donut saw Caboose fiddle with one of the buttons on his damp jacket.

"Why are you asking me?"

"I was just curious. I asked Simmons already. Response was kinda creepy... I just thought I'd ask."

"I...I, uh..." Caboose swallowed nervously. "I do not want to talk about it."

"Sorry, that's probably not the best thing to be asking people. I won't ask you again."

"That is good. It is very hard to pretend when people keep asking things. It is better not to think." Caboose looked at Donut's hands. Still dripping. "You should not think about it. If you... think about the bad things too much, everything starts to feel bad. And people who feel really, really bad in here usually die. Like Joannes. Do not think about it." Caboose nodded. "That is what Church told me."

"Did he, now..."

_Don't think about it and it can't hurt you. Such simplistic logic... Wonder if it actually works. How do you stop thinking?_

Donut wiped his wet hands on his jumpsuit pants. "Alright. I'll stop thinking about it starting... now."

"Good. Now... breakfast time!" Caboose grabbed onto the sleeve of Donut's jacket and started tugging him in the direction of the cafeteria. "Eating time!"

"Uh, you realise breakfast is probably over now?"

"Crap."

Donut's hands still felt sticky.

* * *

Doc had finished bandaging and stitching O'Malley up, but O'Malley hadn't stirred since. And Doc had no idea what to do. There had been injuries on his head (it looked like someone had hit him pretty hard) and so Doc had stitched up the worst of the injuries. But he felt like there had to be something more he could do. Then again, his medical knowledge was never great. A job at the prison was the only job that would take him.

Doc sighed and massaged his forehead. Then he remembered he was still wearing bloody, plastic gloves. He quickly washed up, tossing the bloody gloves into the bin.

He heard the door swing open behind him, and turned to see York standing in the doorway.

"South told me about... you know." York jerked his head at O'Malley. "He alive?"

"So far. I think he'll live, he was still awake when South found him. If he hadn't bandaged his head up, he probably would have lost too much blood for me to do anything. As it was, I don't think he'll be in any condition to move for a while."

"You sure you want him in there? I heard he tried attacking you last time. Isn't that why he was in solitary to begin with?"

"He's in no condition to be attacking anyone. Trust me. He'll be lucky if he can sit up without vomiting when he wakes up." Actually, having O'Malley in the infirmary for a prolonged length of time made Doc incredibly nervous. Doc decided he had to install extra locks on the supplies before O'Malley woke up. "You know a lot about locks, right? Know any good places to get some good ones?"

"There's a place couple of blocks away from the station. I'll write down directions."

"Thanks. You wouldn't know how O'Malley got like this, would you?"

"Uh. No. No. Why would I know that?" York said, just a little too quickly. "I wasn't even patrolling around there, though heard a ton of thumping. Maybe... he was just hitting his head against the wall too much? Uh... oh, look. My phone's ringing."

"I... I don't hear anything."

"Oh, it's... one of those special phones that some people can't hear. Yeah. Gotta go take this." York backed out of the room quickly, walking back down the corridor.

Doc shook his head. He might have a habit of believing obvious liars... but York was such a horrible liar that it even tipped Doc's 'bullshit' radar off. Doc sighed. Maybe he'd have to ask Wash. Wash and York often patrolled around the same areas. Wash would probably know.

But in the meantime, Doc didn't want to leave O'Malley alone in the infirmary. For several reasons, one of them being that if O'Malley woke up and managed to get to his feet, he didn't want O'Malley breaking into the medicine closet and swapping the medication around or something stupid like that. Doc really wouldn't put it past him.

* * *

Donut was ironing jumpsuits (a surprisingly pleasant change from folding them) when he felt someone poke him in the back.

"Talk to Miller today. Nothing heavy. Just friendly chit-chat," Tucker muttered behind him. "Don't let anything slip that shouldn't be slipped. Alright? Don't bother digging for information today, it might make him suspicious. Just be friendly."

Donut nodded. "Okay. I'll try."

"You better do more than just fucking try, Dye-Job. If you try and fail, that's gonna be shit for all of us." Tucker moved away to carry some jumpsuits to the clothing pile. Donut returned to ironing, pondering subjects to talk about that didn't include soap-carving or interior design.


	38. Chapter 37: Withdrawal

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: Withdrawal**

"Uhhh... hi."

Miller looked up from stacking books. "...The hell you want?"

"Uh. No?" Donut shifted nervously, half-hiding behind a bookshelf. "No. Nothing. Um. Just... uh. You run the library, don't you?"

"Yeah. Even if I didn't get a goddamn choice in that."

"I was kinda... looking for a book on, um... crafty stuff."

"Right..." Miller stood up with a groan. "Erk. And they said librarian would be a goddamn easy job. They clearly haven't stacked the lower shelves." Miller looked at Donut, scratching the side of his face thoughtfully. "We've met, haven't we? You're the little queer guy that was helping Caboose find books. Say you didn't bring him with you, I don't want to have to straighten the shelves again."

"Oh. No, he's... somewhere else."

It had actually been very difficult to convince Caboose not to follow him. Caboose seemed a bit worried over the fact that Donut was going to be left alone with the guy who had gotten Church thrown in solitary (albeit in a more roundabout way than intended). The furthest he could get to getting Caboose to leave him alone was letting Caboose sit just a few feet away from the library door.

"Well, good. Craft books are over there," Miller waved his hand at a shelf. Donut nodded. Inside, he was flailing around in a panic.

_What do I do? What do I say? Do I just grab the book and leave? Should I stay and try to make more conversation? Would that be suspicious? Would not doing that be suspicious? Oh my god, I have no idea what I'm doing._

"Uh. So. What are you in for?" Donut asked feebly. That was the first question they always asked in the movies, though come to think of it he'd never gotten around to properly asking any of the guys in his row. (Though, he didn't really want to know the details of what they'd done. What little he knew was creepy enough.)

"Check swindling. Walked past the car of someone I'd tricked in the past. Small world," Miller said shortly. "Don't need to ask you. You're one of the lifers. In the same section as some of the other murderers."

"Yeah. How'd you know which section my cell was in?" Of course, Donut knew why Miller knew.

"Well, you hang around with murderers. That means you're probably a damn murderer." Miller shifted a little. "So. Fell into Church's little group of jackasses, did you?"

Donut, who had picked up one of the books, promptly dropped it.

"Uh, what?"

"Come on, kid. I have eyes. I've seen you around them and you have Caboose following you around."

Miller pointed at the door. Donut turned to see that Caboose had edged closer and was watching them, while muttering under his breath, "I am sneaking, I am sneaking, I am sneaking..." Donut resisted the urge to slap his forehead.

_Dammit, Caboose, I asked you to stay out of sight._

"How'd you get that to happen, huh?" Miller asked.

Thirty seconds into the plan, and I'm already so close to getting caught. I suck at shifted nervously, before deciding on part of the truth.

"Blackmailed Church into giving me protection. That's all."

"Hm. Wouldn't consider telling me what information you used, would you?"

"No. Then I'd lose the protection."

"Well, you're a hell of a lot smarter than you look, in that case. Alright, then." Miller sighed. "Well, not like I can kick you out of the library. Not with Caboose following you around. Even if he didn't hurt me over it, he'd probably stare with those goddamn eyes."

"Mhm."

"Just take your book and leave. You don't seem like a bad kid or nothing... but that's what I thought about Caboose until he crushed Phil's head."

"I thought that was never proven?"

"They fell," Caboose muttered from the door. "I mean... there is no-one here!"

"Idiot," Miller said. He lowered his voice so that Caboose wouldn't be able to hear and said, "Saw it with my own two eyes. Well, one eye... someone had shoved macaroni into the other. But I saw it happen." Miller moved a book off a shelf it was wrongly stacked on. "'Course, snitching on him would have probably got me with my head twisted in a similar position. But I was leading up to something... don't trust those guys you hang around. Not just Church and his little followers. Don't trust any of them. Might regret it."

Donut picked up a book on paper mache. "Regret it? This got something to do with Joannes?"

"...Yeah." Miller's face darkened for a moment and he looked away. "He got tangled up with them. And he regretted it, alright? Now get the hell out."

All in all, it wasn't the friendliest conversation.

* * *

Doc sorted medication into the little cups. He was still on the edge of his seat, waiting for O'Malley to move. But O'Malley remained motionless. Doc bit his lip nervously, glancing back quickly before returning his attention to the little cups.

"This better be important," Doc heard someone say behind him. He turned to see Wash standing in the doorway. "Why did you call me up here?"

"Just a quick question, that's all," Doc said quietly. He pointed at O'Malley. "O'Malley was found in his cell, and he had been hit over the head more than once. I was wondering if you knew something about it."

Wash looked slowly from O'Malley to Doc. "Why would you ask me what happened?"

"Oh, well... I know you were at the prison last night. And I know you follow York around a lot, and when I asked him about it... he was a bit defensive. Uh, not that I'm accusing you or anything," Doc added hastily.

"Aren't you? It sounded like you were."

"No, no, no. I was just saying... only a guard could have easily gotten into the cell, so..."

"I know what you're saying, Doc."

"Well? Did you see anything?"

Wash stared impassively at him. Doc tried staring back, but it was difficult. Wash didn't seem to blink much. They were both too involved in this staring contest to see O'Malley move, although he didn't do more than open his eyes.

"No. I didn't. I heard noise, but nothing else," Wash said, after several seconds of silence. "Did you question O'Malley about the source of his head injuries?"

"Yes... but he said Santa Claus did it..."

"Hm. Most likely he hit his head on the wall so that he could get sent to the infirmary. Wouldn't be the first inmate to hurt themselves to get out of solitary." Wash glanced at O'Malley again and saw O'Malley's glazed eyes staring back at him. "He's... done stranger things."

"Really... maybe the medication is too weak," Doc pondered, looking down at the cups of medicine. "Or too strong."

"Can I go now? I don't appreciate being forced to miss lunch."

"Right, of course. Sorry to bother you." Doc heard Wash's footsteps fade, as he continued sorting medication and tried to remember which inmate took the little red tablets.

"You believe people too easily, Doc," O'Malley said quietly. Doc yelped and accidentally knocked over several cups of pills.

"Oh, you startled me... I didn't know when you'd wake up. How are you feeling?"

"Fantastic. Just fantastic."

"I stitched you up some, but you lost a lot of blood so you'll be in here for a while. But any funny stuff and you are going back to the cell. Okay?"

"You believe too easy. You believe what Washington says. You believe inmates when they claim they're too sick to work. And you believe me whenever I'm lying. Though never when I'm telling the truth, funnily enough. You trust too easily."

"What are you trying to tell me? That Wash was lying to me?"

"Hmm? What am I trying to tell you? Nothing. Just observing."

Doc tilted his head. There was something strange about how O'Malley was behaving. After a few seconds of pondering, Doc figured it out. O'Malley wasn't cackling or grinning, or even smiling in his usual twisted way. He just looked very tired. And if Doc looked closely, he could see that O'Malley's hands were shaking just a little. Perhaps from blood loss.

"Well, concentrate on getting better rather than observing, okay?"

"Fine. But I'm only listening because you're my favourite plaything." O'Malley shut his eyes again. "You're very strange... after all, last time I was here I tried to shove things down your throat and tackled you to the floor. Yet you're still treating me nicely."

Doc continued picking up the meds he had spilt on the floor, keeping his head down so he didn't have to look at O'Malley. "Of course I am. You're a patient. I'm a doctor. I have to do my best to treat you."

"You're not a doctor."

"I'm more of one than you."

"Talking back, hm? Growing a backbone... about time..." O'Malley stopped talking, and his breathing got slower. He'd fallen asleep again. Doc climbed to his feet and returned to sorting the medication into cups. Occasionally he would glance back at O'Malley, making sure he was still asleep. At the same time wondering why O'Malley wasn't grinning like a lunatic, like he had been even when he had been dragged in earlier.

* * *

O'Malley could have answered that.

Even though he had fallen asleep quickly again, O'Malley had been awake enough to notice that his thoughts were less cloudy. That he could actually think. They were somewhat muddled, but that was more of a result of Wash hitting him over the head several times.

He'd felt somewhat shaky at the same time. His hands couldn't stay still.

The next time O'Malley woke up, a few hours later, he saw Doc sitting on the other side of the room, treating an inmate who had apparently injured his arm. O'Malley's hands were even shakier and his head was throbbing more than ever. But despite this his thoughts were much clearer. He couldn't remember having thoughts so clear since...

Since before Doc put him on this medication.

It clicked. South had dropped O'Malley's medication when she saw O'Malley and his bloody pillow-turban. Doc hadn't given O'Malley his medication while he was knocked out. O'Malley had gone, by now, a full twenty-four hours without his meds. He hadn't received his daily dose and now he was feeling the effects.

That explained the clear thoughts. And he supposed it explained the shakes and the headache. Withdrawal. But that was an effect that would pass, because there was no way that O'Malley was addicted to his little cup of mind control. How could he become addicted to something that made him forget how to think?

The effects were probably just exacerbated by the fact that he was low on blood. Yes, that was it.

Despite the pain and the shakes, O'Malley grinned at the ceiling before shutting his eyes and pretending to be asleep so that Doc wouldn't see him awake and try to give him the medication. After all, he hadn't had a moment of clarity in three years. He was going to enjoy it for as long as possible.


	39. Chapter 38: Sickness

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: Sickness**

It was getting into winter. And winter, Donut found out, was a crappy time to be tightly packed in a freezing yard with hundreds of other inmates. Colds and flus tended to spread quickly that way. The same day Donut first talked to Miller, Grif started sneezing and coughing something awful. The sound was similar to an elephant dying in the loudest way possible. The next day, Grif refused to leave his cell and insisted he was too sick to do any laundry. The guards decided he was just crying wolf, since Grif had faked sickness numerous times to get out of doing work, and he'd been dragged out by force.

Simmons caught it that day, too. He didn't sound as much like a dying elephant, merely making the sounds of a very sick lizard. When Donut walked to his cell to grab his book on soap carvings so he could return it and have an excuse to talk to Miller again, he found Grif sitting on his bunk wrapped in blankets so Donut could only see his face. Simmons was sitting on the floor, similarly wrapped in his own blankets.

Visiting the library had been useless, too. Miller had been sneezing too much to really pay attention to Donut. Donut hadn't wanted to get sick as well, so he'd left.

Three days after that first conversation with Miller, Donut had stopped next to Caboose's cell only to see Caboose curled up on his bed, using a sock as a tissue.

"That's gross," Donut informed him, standing outside Caboose's cell since he didn't want to sound like some variant of dying animal for the next few days.

Caboose grunted in response before sneezing again. Donut sat down outside.

"So... how're you feeling?" Donut asked.

"Mmph."

"Is that bad?"

A sock flew out of Caboose's cell and hit Donut in the face. Thankfully, it was not the same sock Caboose had been using as a hanky. But the sock in the face clearly said 'yes, and I am also grumpy.' Caboose sat up, and when he spoke he was constantly interrupted by sneezing.

"I do not like sick days," Caboose muttered. "It means I have to stay still. And when I stay still, I think. And I hate thinking. Also, you are not coming near me. Like I am... dis-easel."

"Diseased? Well, you kind of are."

"...Right."

"Is there anything I can do which doesn't involve coming too close?" Donut asked, tilting his head. He'd already asked Grif and Simmons the same question. Simmons had said he didn't need anything, but Grif had insisted on fruit. Because he needed 'booze, and lots of it.' Donut was pretty sure alcohol wasn't a necessary ingredient to get better, but he agreed anyway.

Caboose had to think about it, but he shook his head after a few moments.

"No. When I was sick, Mama used to make these funny teas with herbs in them... but they tasted like cat feet." Caboose pouted. "I also used to like to hug things... I would hug Margretta, but Mister Washingtub took her away. And the last time I tried one of her wings fell off, so I do not think she was huggable anymore." He sneezed again. "And I cannot hug anything else, because nothing will come near me."

Donut hummed sympathetically. "Well, just tell me if you think of something. I mean, I'd give you a hug if you weren't so contagious." _And if I didn't think my ribs were going to crack from the force._

"Hey, Dye-Job!" Tucker walked towards him. Somehow, Tucker had escaped the epidemic going around. Maybe because he'd been spending a lot of time by himself, either in his cell or pacing the yard. Tucker came to a stop. "Found you, been... hey, why you looking in Caboose's cell, he sick?" Tucker stuck his head in and quickly pulled it out with a yelp. Caboose had tossed one of his boots in Tucker's direction and it had hit Tucker square on the nose.

"Ow, son of a bitch. Why do people always hit my fucking nose... right." Tucker tapped his chin. "Er, I was going to say something... right. Miller. Since he's sick as well, maybe you can chisel your way into his trust by being all... I dunno, do that whole being 'friendly and comforting' and all that sissy stuff."

"You sure that will work? Last time he was sneezing too much to hear anything I said."

"Might as well fucking try. What else are we supposed to do? He'd punch me in the face rather than have a fucking decent conversation. Ditto Church. Even if Miller wasn't already wary of Caboose, Caboose is too retarded to hold any kind of subtle conversation..."

"I am right here," Caboose muttered into his sock.

"Miller's even suspicious of Grif and Simmons. You, on the other hand... you just don't look like a threat, you know?"

"Yeah..." Donut sighed. "I know. I'm too small. I have dyed hair. I act girly. Blah blah blah. I know, I hear it from you day in and day out. If you're going to ask me for help, you could at least stop mocking me. It's rude."

"Yeah!" Caboose raised his other boot. "Apologise to Captain Cookie!"

"Caboose, I said no violence!"

"I was not going to be violent. The boot was."

Tucker crossed his arms and stared at Donut critically. "I'm not apologising for saying what's true, alright? Don't get your panties in a wad, Dye-Job."

"Just making a point..."

* * *

"Uh... not to be rude or anything... but I ordered cough syrup, and you sent me aspirins. ...well, when you put it that way, I suppose that will do. Are you sure a cold can be cured with aspirin? Okay."

Doc hung up and resisted the uncharacteristic urge to punch something. This time of the year was always stressful, because inmates kept coming in and insisting they were too sick to work, or that they were dying, and this was the time when inmates often faked bigger sickness to try and get transferred to a hospital where the food was of slightly higher quality. If it wasn't for his yoga exercises, Doc would probably have snapped by now. Even with the yoga, he was stressed out something awful.

And then there was O'Malley. He'd barely moved in three days, but when he did... he was shakier than ever, and in his sleep he kept making pained noises. A couple of times, he made sounds like he was trying to vomit. Doc wondered if he'd gotten some kind of epidemic, but the symptoms weren't like what any of the other inmates were experiencing.

He had tried to get permission to temporarily move O'Malley to a proper hospital, but the guards refused. The last time O'Malley had been in the hospital, he had bitten someone's finger off and had escaped into the hospital. Terrifyingly, he'd been found in the children's section of the hospital. Less terrifyingly, rather than doing anything menacing he had been sitting in the playpen, distracting himself with a kaleidoscope.

Doc tapped his foot against the ground, looking down at O'Malley. Maybe the shaking was just from the cold. The weather was freezing.

Doc turned around, finding the laundry drawer and looking for another blanket. He didn't hear the slight squeak of the cot as O'Malley quickly climbed off it. He didn't notice anything until he felt a hand on the back of his head.

And that was all he had time to notice before O'Malley slammed Doc's head into the drawer, knowing him out cold.

O'Malley grinned down at the unconscious Doc. It still wasn't quite his usual psychotic-and-on-drugs grin. It was just plain psychotic. O'Malley prodded Doc with his foot carefully. Doc didn't move. O'Malley crossed his arms and stood there for a few moments, considering his options.

Of course, there were a lot of things he would love to do to Doc right now. The opportunities... But that would leave him with no time to roam free around the prison. And it would be nice to enjoy the clarity before a guard noticed he was on the loose and tackled him.

Of course, enjoying the clarity in a peaceful way was no fun at all. Peace and quiet was boring.

O'Malley tapped his foot, considering what would be best to do while he could still think clearly. After this, they'd probably be upping his medication for a while. O'Malley hoped it wouldn't be the kind where you couldn't do anything but sit there and dribble all over the floor. He'd been on that before, it was most unpleasant.

He was sure he could torture a few people, and if he played his cards right it would be a lot more interesting later on. He did love being able to think clear, when he was on his meds his ability to plan in the long term went right out the window.

A surge of nausea ran through him, and he doubled over. He'd been experiencing the urge to vomit for the last day or so, but he hadn't eaten either so not much came out except a few strings of thick liquid matter. O'Malley curled up for a few seconds, covering his mouth as his body protested, confused over the lack of medication.

The withdrawal was getting worse. Another reason he needed to act fast. O'Malley straightened up and tried to force himself to ignore the pains.

He walked out of the infirmary. After a few moments he doubled back and looked back at Doc, who was still lying on the floor. O'Malley approached the unconscious medic and prodded him with his foot again. Arms crossed, frowning rather than grinning.

_Just leave him there, you fool._

O'Malley didn't move for a while, even though he was aware that every second was a second of clarity wasted. After what seemed like several minutes, but was in reality a few seconds, O'Malley reached down and dragged Doc across the floor to one of the cots. He picked Doc up and unceremoniously dropped him on the cot, before returning to the drawer and pulling out the blanket Doc had been removing from it. O'Malley pulled the blanket over Doc, turning him over so he was facing the wall and anyone who walked in would only see the back of Doc's head.

_Ugh. I'm getting soft. Snap out of it, you fool. You're a crazy, evil bastard. Stop coddling the plaything. You're only doing this so anyone who comes in thinks he's just an inmate taking a nap. That's all you're doing._

* * *

Wyoming blew out a ring of smoke and looked up at Donut.

"I assume you've just given up any pretense of manliness, chap?" Wyoming asked. "Perfumed soap, fabric softener... not quite the inventory of a tough inmate."

"Yeah, I know. I was just asking about prices, I don't think I can afford much right now. But I was told you were the best for getting things out of prison."

"Yes, that's certainly true. And the items you requested should be simple to get, as none of them are illegal. Although that last one... that's quite a strange request."

"Ah, that one is the thing I really wanted soon. How much would that be?"

"Well, it would depend on the quality. But I'd estimate between five and ten dollars, not including my surcharge." Wyoming blew out a smoke ring before continuing. "An even ten dollars should be a reasonable price. Will you be getting that from your laundry money?"

"Yeah. I think I can get that, I'm not sure..."

"Normally, that would take a couple of weeks. For an extra two dollars I can get it quicker, since it's a non-lethal item..."

"Sure. Quick is good. So... how much is fabric softener? These jumpsuits are way too itchy."


	40. Chapter 39: Riot

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: Riot**

"No."

O'Malley frowned down at Wyoming, while at the same time holding a newspaper up as if he was reading it. In actual fact, he was trying to shield his face so the guards didn't realise he was wandering free. It was difficult to hold the newspaper still, though.

"Why not?"

"The last two times I acquired screwdrivers for you, you lost them within three days. Last time you held onto it for roughly an hour. It clearly isn't worth supplying you with these, eventually they're going to trace it back to me, my old friend. And I don't want that to happen." Wyoming dropped his cigarette, the same one he had been smoking when Donut came up to him only five minutes ago. He pulled another one out, going through his pocket for a lighter. "Maybe in a year or so, I'll supply you with more. But not now."

"If this was anyone else telling me this, I would have stabbed them by now."

"Yes. Except you have nothing to stab with. Maybe you should make your own."

"I tried. I get distracted." O'Malley scowled. "Fine. I have things to do before they find me. Have you seen any of my usual victims?"

"Your pastry friend just went into the cafeteria."

"Oh, he's turning out to be dull. Too much chatter. But still might be fun. Anyone else?"

"Well, I believe the idiot is in the cells because of the dreadful epidemic going around. I have yet to see dear Tex. But, returning to that flaky 'friend' of yours... I see him and Tucker talking a lot. Quite odd behaviour. And he's been going to visit Miller regularly. You might want to check in on that, chap. If you're looking for anything interesting to mess with, that is."

"Really..." O'Malley grinned. "Aha... that might be fun. Perhaps I'll go find Miller." O'Malley tilted his head briefly, thinking. "Is it possible for you to get most of the guards out of the cafeteria for a few minutes?"

"Of course. Give me half an hour."

* * *

Caboose turned the pages of the book Donut had been reading to him, squinting at the letters. He turned the book sideways and upside-down, but the letters still made no sense to him. He was sure they used to make sense. He couldn't remember all the weird long words Sheila had used to explain it. Sheila used a lot of words Caboose didn't understand. Because Sheila was a lot smarter than him. Which was why she sometimes wore a white coat and did doctorly things.

As Caboose turned the next page, looking for pictures of the wizards with jetpacks that Donut had described and trying not to sneeze on the pages, he heard something move behind him.

"Boo."

"Aaaaaah!" Caboose hadn't yelled because he was startled. He'd yelled because he recognised the voice right off. "Go away! Go away!"

O'Malley took a step forward into the cell, hands tucked behind his back. "That's a bit rude, isn't it? I haven't even done anything threatening. In fact-" O'Malley stopped talking suddenly and covered his mouth, looking pained for a moment, but then he continued. "I wasn't even planning to. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, haven't decided yet. Considering I'll probably be put on those unpleasant sedatives after this, probably not tomorrow either. And now you're thinking of those sedatives, too. Aren't you?"

"No," Caboose lied. "No. Go away. I will... I will make you go away."

"Now, Caboose. You hate the sedatives as much as I do. And you know if you act up again then Doc will put you on them."

Caboose scooted away from O'Malley, leaving the book lying on the cot. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk. Just to have a friendly chat." O'Malley climbed onto the cot. Caboose shifted further away. Caboose was shaking almost as much as O'Malley was, but out of fear. "After all, we do have a certain sense of kinship, do we not? Always the ones being put on the medication Always being referred to as crazy. Both somewhat... erm, indiscriminate about who we hurt. Very alike."

"No. Not like you." Caboose edged further away, but overbalanced and fell off the bed.

"Oh, I don't like to admit it either. After all, you're incredibly stupid. But our minds work in sync, Mikey."

Caboose was flat against the wall now. His mouth had twisted in a frown. "Don't call me that."

"What? Mikey? But it's such a cute nickname, isn't it?"

"Shut up. And do not touch that!" O'Malley had picked up the book that had been lying where Caboose dropped it. O'Malley flicked through the pages.

"Hm. Who has been reading to you? The pastry? Oh, Mikey. You really put your trust in the worst people. After all, you once trusted me of all people. Did you never learn your lesson?"

"Captain Biscuit... is my friend..." Caboose sneezed. "And he is good with trust-ness."

"Oh really?" O'Malley held up the book. "What is this about?"

"Wizards. Wizards with jetpacks," Caboose said shakily. "It says it on the cover. The Awesome Magician Who Had Fabulously Happy Times."

O'Malley tutted. "Oh, was that really the best title he could come up with? The pastry has been lying to you." O'Malley tossed the book back on the cot. "Don't believe me? Ask someone what the front cover says. Someone who isn't the pastry. If only this was the only thing he lied to you about. Oh, if only." O'Malley grinned. "Just... a little heads up. After all, I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you."

"Bullsh—bullstupid," Caboose whispered, correcting himself halfway because his mama had always hated it when he swore.

"No. Not bullshit. I don't lie as much as people think I do. I tell the truth because it hurts more. That's why you're afraid of me. Could I really do you physical harm? No. That'd be akin to saying that you have the IQ of Einstein, or that Doc is actually a doctor." O'Malley grinned. "You're afraid of me because when I'm here... you can't forget about the bad things you've done. You remember, because it was your fault. And I won't let you forget that. Because it's more fun to put you through that mental torture. I'm really just passing time here." O'Malley stretched his grin out wider, trying to get the effect of his usual med-induced psychotic grins. "My point... you trusted me, and that just got you even more messed up. Be a little more careful of who you become friends with." O'Malley backed out of the room. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I have people to meet and hurt... normal day of work." He waved cheerfully. "Until next time, Mikey."

Caboose sat there for a few long minutes after O'Malley had left. His brain seemed to have temporarily shut down on him. After a few minutes of silence interrupted only by sneezing fits, Caboose climbed to his feet and picked up the book. He looked at the cover.

_Has Admiral Twinkie been lying to me? He does look kind of guilty sometimes... like when Apples would pee on the carpet and then try to pretend nothing happened. Except not pee and just lying... but Admiral Twinkie would not lie to me, would he?_

Caboose squinted at the cover. He did see a wizard on it. But no sign of jetpacks or dragons or any of the other things that Donut had talked about.

_Maybe I should go and ask, but what if he gets mad at me for doubting his friendliness? But I could... he would be out there. Where O'Malley is._

_He is where O'Malley is?_

_Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. He's where O'Malley is. That is bad! Bad, bad!_

Caboose dropped the book and pelted out of cell, in the direction that O'Malley had gone, hoping he could find Donut before anything horrible happened.

* * *

At that moment, Donut wasn't in trouble. He was just trying to bargain for extra fruit with various inmates that were eating lunch.

"I'll trade you my macaroni."

"No deal. Apple juice or nothing."

"But I love apple juice! I'll give you the orange juice we get with dinner."

"No way, that always tastes like it's been kept next to rotten cheese."

"Yeah..."

Donut sighed, moving back to sit down at the usual table. Tucker was poking moodily at his own food. Donut gestured at the apple sitting on Tucker's tray.

"You going to eat that? Grif needs fruit so he can make more pruno."

Tucker looked up at him briefly. "Maybe if it was someone else asking. But I'm not trading with you."

"What is your problem with me?" Donut sighed. "I know, I helped O'Malley get your face that one time. I didn't know that was going to happen, and you indirectly got my leg broken. That's about square. And you seemed less... hatey when you drew that naked lady on my cast. Remember? What happened between that and when I got out to make you hate me so much?"

Tucker poked at his macaroni. "Does it matter? Don't question me, just leave me and my soul-consuming hate be. Jeez."

"But I wanna knoooow."

"Fuck off. Seriously."

"Aw, but the more you refuse to answer, the more I want to know."

* * *

O'Malley was sitting near the door of the cafeteria, holding his newspaper up. Occasionally he would look over it. He'd spotted Miller entering the cafeteria. It was the second time he'd seen Miller, the first time being just before he went to annoy Caboose to fill in time.

He saw Miller's grim expression. And saw him making a beeline towards Donut. At the same time, O'Malley got to his feet. Still holding the newspaper up. Which was less than subtle, but it would do for the next minute or so.

Miller wasn't stupid. He wouldn't start a fight in the cafeteria. If there was a riot already happening in the cafeteria, however... then Miller would probably grab that chance to do some damage.

O'Malley peered over his newspaper at the inmates serving the food, looking for the big, angry man that started fights if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. He would be fantastic for starting a cafeteria-wide riot.

And it wouldn't take much work. It was becoming almost as difficult to concentrate as it was when he was actually on the meds, so the less work the better.

Right now, the cafeteria was set up like a powder keg, and O'Malley was about to light the fuse that would set it off.

* * *

"You! Little queer guy!"

Donut turned to see Miller standing behind him, arms crossed and looking furious, with a few other inmates backing him.

"You conniving little devil," Miller growled. "I knew there was something off about you and your damn questions."

"Um... ah. What? I don't know what you're talking about..." Donut said feebly.

_Oh shit._

"Oh snap," Tucker muttered under his breath.

"Shut up, Tucker. You were already on my shit list and sending this little guy with the bad dye job to get information had just bumped you right up to the... whatever is higher than the shit list."

"Uhm..."

"Well, you got Church thrown in solitary," Tucker muttered. "And you're the ones who wouldn't stop starting the fights. I told you the thing with Joaness was an accident!"

"Yes, let's all believe the conman." Miller glared back at Donut. "Look, shrimpy. You still don't seem like that bad a kid. I'm giving you a chance to get away from that crowd. You'd be better off, and not just because we're going to get you if you refuse."

Donut looked from Miller, who was standing there with his arms crossed, to Tucker, who was moving his macaroni off his tray, not looking at Donut and watching Miller out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

Grif made another wheezy noise akin to an elderly elephant being kicked in the crotch.

"I don't want to go out there," he rasped in between. "Can't you just bring me my food, you're not as sick."

Simmons shook his head. "You know they'd only give me my lunch. And I'm not sharing with you, last time I did you ate everything before I could even pick up my orange juice."

"I was hungry."

"You're always hungry. Dumbass."

Grif followed Simmons, alternately grumbling and coughing. "Yeah, well... the day I lose my appetite is the day I see no point in living. So shut up."

Simmons opened his mouth to retort when Caboose went barreling past them towards the cafeteria.

"Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap..."

"What the hell was that about?" Simmons pondered.

"I dunno, but if something is going on in the cafeteria, maybe I'll have a chance to steal some fruit," Grif said optimistically. "Although, if it goes into a riot..."

"I'm carrying ten dollars I managed to bargain off an inmate in exchange for an old science fiction book. If it's a riot and we end up involved, I'll bribe the guard so he'll throw us in the same solitary cell," Simmons said, a small smile crossing his face.

"You'd risk a write-up?"

"For a moment of privacy? Fuck yes."

Grif grinned. "Then what the hell are we waiting for?"

* * *

Donut slowly shook his head. "I can't."

"Why? Because they're making you work with them using goddamn threats? Or because you just don't want to?"

"I don't want to. Please don't hurt me."

"Wuss," Tucker muttered under his breath.

Miller let out a long breath. At the same time, there was a crash from the other side of the room, near the cafeteria line. The two guards in the room, Tex and York, looked up, as did many of the inmates.

From where Donut was sitting, he saw a large man wearing an apron, the man who served the macaroni. He was shouting and waving around a tray. And he saw a flash of red hair.

"DuFresne?" Donut muttered under his breath. Tucker looked at him.

"What?"

"I just saw-"

There was a louder crash, as DuFresne rolled under a table and two other men, presumably friends of the man serving macaroni, jumped to their feet. Tex had removed her nightstick, shouting something indistinguishable. York was a little more hesitant to go near the inmates. More were starting to join in a struggle that largely seemed to be DuFresne against a good portion of the cafeteria. Spurred on by the large macaroni server. Miller glanced sideways at the fighting, and the two very distracted guards.

"Oh, that's going to turn into a full-scale riot... Might as well make the best of it." Miller pulled back his fist and punched Donut full in the face. Tucker, who had already removed his food from his tray, used the tray to hit Miller over the head in retaliation. In the short time it took to do those two things, most of the people in the room had taken the opportunity to start punching people.

While Miller was disorientated from being hit over the head, Tucker grabbed Donut's arm and pulled him under the table.

"They'll put us under lockdown," Tucker shouted over the noise. "That'll take a couple of minutes at most, but for that couple of minutes we've got Miller and his douchebags after us. Crawl this way!"

Donut crawled after Tucker, as Tucker tried to stay under the tables and as far away from Miller as possible. As Donut followed him, he heard a loud yell and saw a Grif-shaped blur tackle one of Miller's friends, who had been just a few inches away from Donut.

_Now that's the most physical thing I've ever seen Grif do._

"Ow, my face." Grif rolled off the inmate, holding his nose. He crawled after Tucker and Donut, and the three of them hid under a table. "Hey. How's it going?" he asked casually, like there wasn't a full-scale riot going on around them.

"Thirty seconds into the riot. Not dead. Pretty good," Tucker said lightly. "Where's Simmons?"

"Huh? Oh shit..." Grif stuck his head out. "Uh... oh, there he is. Hey, Simmons! Wait up, we can go tackle the big macaroni guy! I owe him a black eye!"

Tucker shook his head, holding up his tray to deflect some macaroni as Grif climbed to his feet to go after Simmons. "Strange people. Okay... normally, me and Church would just sit back to back and hold trays to stop macaroni getting in our eyes, while Caboose punched people that got too close. Since Caboose isn't here..."

"Captain Crumbcake! Where are you?"

"Okay, so he is here. Grab a tray. Macaroni stings like a bitch."

Donut reached his hand up, feeling around for a tray. The noise was deafening. He could see Grif and Simmons nearby. Grif had gone into another coughing fit and was doubled over, making the same dying elephant noises. Simmons had one hand on Grif's back, and was hitting anyone who got too close with a macaroni ladle he'd somehow acquired. Donut couldn't see Caboose, but he could certainly hear him shouting pastry-related names. While Donut scanned the crowd for him (he couldn't be too hard to spot, he usually towered over everyone else) he heard Tucker shout.

"Hey! Let go, you fucktar—hey!" Donut turned around to see Miller trying to drag Tucker out from under the table by his feet. "Let go, you mother-ow! Son of a bitch!" Tucker kicked the leg that Miller had just hit with a tray and crawled out. "Oh, that does it. You're going down!"

Donut did feel like he should help Tucker, even if they didn't get along. But he was also terrified, and he didn't want to get between two guys trying to beat each other to death with food trays. As Donut shifted away, holding his own food tray, he heard a voice behind him.

"Quite the commotion, wouldn't you say?"

"Why is this table a refuge for so many?" Donut muttered under his breath. "DuFresne, why did you start that?"

"What? I didn't start it. That man just has a temper. This way. Nice to see you out of solitary and all that." DuFresne tugged on Donut's jacket, dragging him away from Tucker, who was currently sitting on top of Miller and hitting him with his tray.

"This. Is. For. Getting. Church. In. Solitary. You. Motherfucker!" Tucker shouted, punctuating each word with a blow.

"Wait! Where are we going?" Donut yelled.

"One minute and counting. Room will be... urk..." DuFresne doubled over and started making retching noises.

"You alright?"

"Epidemic. Not... ugh... not important. Room will be gassed any second now, and you don't want to be near Miller and his friends when that happens. Don't want to be caught in the back with anything, so back-to-back. Trays at the ready."

* * *

Caboose stood on his toes and tried to see across the sea of orange jumpsuits.

"Captain Buttermuffin! Where are you? Please don't be hurt!" he shouted over the crowd, pushing people out of the way as he made his way through. He felt people bump into him, and he was pretty sure someone hit him with a macaroni ladle at one point, but Caboose didn't really notice. He just pushed the guy holding the ladle into a wall and went on his way.

"Admiral Cupcake! Muffin Man!"

And then Caboose saw them. He saw Donut's blond hair. And then he saw familiar red hair next to it. He saw Donut and O'Malley. Back to back. Donut was helping O'Malley.

_No. No. No, he wouldn't help O'Malley! But he is! Oh god! He... has he always been helping O'Malley? Was Tucker telling the truth that time? That Donut was helping O'Malley? That he really did get Tucker... and Church... stabbed? Was... was he lying about being my friend? Was he just helping O'Malley the whole time? _

_Oh god, it's true! It's all true..._

* * *

Donut ducked a carton of apple juice that came flying in his direction. He heard DuFresne chuckle. It was not a nice chuckle... It was strange. Familiar.

"I see your friend."

"Huh?" Donut turned to see Caboose. Standing not too far away, splattered in macaroni. He was staring at Donut, and... he looked hurt. Not physically hurt, even though there was macaroni jammed in his ear. But... he was looking at Donut like Donut had just punched him in the face. Caboose stared for just one more moment before turning away and pushing his way through the crowd. Away from Donut.

"Why is he-"

Donut heard a shout and a hissing sound. Clouds of gas started appearing, and the noise dissolved into people choking on the gas. And among all that, he heard DuFresne start laughing.

Donut recognised the laugh.

Donut turned around to face DuFresne as the redhead kept roaring with laughter. Even as the gas spread and DuFresne's laughter turned into coughing, Donut could see DuFresne's face.

No. Not DuFresne.

"I wish I could take a picture of the look on your face right now," O'Malley chuckled in between the coughs. "It is... priceless."


	41. Chapter 40: Sedatives

**A/N: Apologise for the lack of chapters recently. University's taking up most of my time at the moment. After chapter forty-one, it's another backstory chapter and that'll likely take longer to edit, so apologies in advance if it takes a while.**

**Chapter Forty: Sedatives**

It had been five hours since the riot and Doc was still patching up those who had gotten injured. He'd started with those in critical condition. It was amazing how much damage the inmates could do with lunch trays, ladles and a decent amount of macaroni.

He'd lost five patients that day. Darn, and he'd been on such a good streak...

The urgency of the situation was winding down. A couple of inmates (the one he'd managed to keep alive for long enough) had been sent to the hospital, and the others remaining weren't in critical condition. Anyone that didn't have visible or urgent injuries had been sent to their cells and the prison had been put into lock down.

Still, Doc knew that some of them probably had internal injuries, and that they'd show up complaining of stomach aches and Doc would check them over and realise that their spleen had ruptured and they were about to die. And it would just go on and on and on...

It was at days like this that Doc hated his job.

Mercifully, O'Malley wasn't there. He'd been dragged straight back to solitary, even though his bandages needed changing. Doc made a note to go down and check once he'd finished with the other patients. There wouldn't be much danger. O'Malley had been sedated this time around, and wouldn't be in much of a state to do anything besides staring at the wall and dribbling. Maybe a few disjointed words of conversation, but even if O'Malley tried anything he'd be so drugged that even Doc would be able to overpower him.

Doc didn't like sedating patients. Even ones like O'Malley. Sometimes they started to behave funny or end up depressed and stop eating, and with no food the problems just got worse and...

Doc tended to the remaining patients, as well as the prison guards that had been injured in the riot. No serious injuries among them, although York had been temporarily blinded in his remaining good eye by macaroni. That macaroni was far too dangerous to be served in a prison...

Since there were so many patients that day, by the time Doc had gotten rid of the last one it was so far past the time he normally left that it was only an hour before he would arrive on a regular day. On days like this, Doc would usually sleep in a chair until his usual arrival time. This time, he headed down towards the solitary cells.

* * *

_How could I be so stupid?_

Donut sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. Fingers twisted in his hair. Trying to figure out how he could have fallen for O'Malley's act.

_I knew there was something weird about him! He was so twitchy! He never told me anything about himself except he had a kidney infection and stole a truck... those were probably lies... Goddammit... I screwed up! I screwed up, and... jeez, that look on Caboose's face... it probably did look like I was helping the guy who goes around stabbing people... no problem. I just gotta explain the mistake, don't I?_

"Donut. It's four a.m. Do you realise you're talking out loud?" Simmons mumbled from his cell.

"What? Oh... sorry, didn't realise."

"Yeah. Shut the fuck up," Grif complained. Grif had been annoyed since they'd been put in lock down, something about 'lost solitary time.' Which was kind of weird, why would he want to be locked in solitary?

"Sorry."

Donut flopped back onto his bed, looking upwards at the ceiling. He just had to explain. Caboose would get it. Donut was sure of it.

* * *

_Why am I doing this?_

"I need to re-do his bandages and check that the sedatives aren't causing any problems," Doc said.

_I should be sleeping in a chair. Not talking to psychopathic former surgeons._

"You sure you want to?" North asked, fiddling around with the ring of keys, trying to find the right one. "I can probably change the bandages for you. Not that he's dangerous right now, but he did knock you out. How's your head, by the way?"

"Sore. But not that bad. And I think I should do it."

"Okay. Shouldn't have anything to worry about, he's quite passive right now. I checked. In a really professional way. ...Okay, me and South poked him with our nightsticks for a while. But for a professional reason. He didn't react much. Made serving his medication a lot easier. Why didn't we sedate him earlier?"

"Side effects."

"Right, right. Depression, not eating and such? I mean, I'm not going to be harsh like South and say that 'inmates getting depressed and dying of hunger isn't a problem, it's a solution.' Aha." North pulled out the right key. "Should have gotten York, it would have been quicker."

"Would have, but he got macaroni in his remaining eye and won't be able to see properly for the next couple of days," Doc sighed. "That stuff stings..."

"So, that's why you had to find me? I'm not even on my shift, I was going home."

"Sorry."

"It's fine, it's fine. Just get Wash or someone next time."

"No. Not Wash. ...At least not where O'Malley is concerned."

"You want me to wait out here for you?"

"It's okay. I'll lock it again when I leave."

Doc waited for North to leave before stepping inside O'Malley's cell. O'Malley was, indeed, staring at the wall placidly. He hadn't even twitched when the door opened. Doc crouched next to him.

"How're you feeling?" Doc asked. O'Malley didn't move or respond in any way for a few seconds.

"Buh," O'Malley finally responded.

"Um... good to hear. I was just... just checking on you. And I... kind of wanted to ask something. But I guess you're not really in the right frame of mind to be asked questions."

A few more seconds of silence. "Mm."

"I was just kind of wondering why you bothered leaving me on the cot and covering me in a blanket. Was it some sort of attempted murder? Because when North found me the blanket was really stuffy and I was having problems breathing. I think. I don't remember it... what with being knocked out at the time and everything."

O'Malley, once again, responded with a 'buh'.

"Yeah, I know. I'm probably being annoying."

"Guh."

"Thought so. Okay, well... I'll talk to you when you're in a better... state of mind."

"Doc."

"Yes. That is me. Well done. Wait, that's patronizing... hey, what?"

O'Malley had, very slowly, reached and grabbed Doc's coat. Which Doc mostly wore to appear more like a doctor. O'Malley was holding onto his coat, but it wasn't really threatening. Having moved away from the wall when he grabbed Doc's coat, O'Malley seemed to be having trouble keeping his balance and was largely using the coat as support. O'Malley was squinting at Doc's face, like he was trying to remember something.

"...Doc," O'Malley repeated.

"Yes. Did you want something?"

O'Malley kept squinting for a moment, before tugging Doc forwards. Doc, who was still crouching and had been trying to stop himself from falling over due to O'Malley clinging to his coat, lost his balance completely. And O'Malley moved as far forward as he could without falling over, smashing his lips against Doc's.

Of course, trying to kiss someone like that is not a good idea. It resulted in them also smashing noses, which of course resulted in Doc reeling back and holding his nose and completely confused about what had just happened. O'Malley, who still had a weak hold on Doc's coat and hadn't seemed to notice that he'd injured his nose yet again, let out a small chuckle. A clearly drugged chuckle, but a crazy chuckle nonetheless.

"Plaything," he said slowly. "Doc."

Doc could almost hear an undrugged O'Malley talking.

_You're my plaything._

"Guh."

_Mine. That's why I covered you in a blanket. That's why I stop other inmates from insulting or hurting you. So you don't die until I want you to. Until I say you can._

Doc wasn't sure how he got that much out of a miscellaneous grunt. Maybe he had been stuck around O'Malley too often lately. Maybe craziness was contagious. But regardless of what that was really what O'Malley meant to say... it really did make Doc want to run for the hills.

* * *

Donut thought it would be fine if he just explained the truth to Caboose. It turns out Caboose didn't want to listen to him.

"Go away."

"But, Caboose..."

"Go away."

"I didn't—"

"Go away."

"It was an accident!"

Caboose was sitting on his bed, arms crossed, looking determinately in the opposite direction. Donut shifted from foot to foot, while mentally trying to get Caboose to look at him. If he had secret Jedi powers, this would be a great time for them to work.

"Yes. You working with O'Malley... who is a very big meanieface who nearly killed Church... was a complete accident. I do things like that accidentally all the time."

"Hey, if people can accidentally 'fall over' whenever you happen to be in the room, which sounds a lot more ridiculous than what I just said..."

"Did you just say I was a liar?"

_Dye-Job, that was a shitty attempt at reconciliation. You're an idiot and your hair looks stupid._

Donut briefly paused to wonder why the voice in his head suddenly sounded like Church.

"Okay, I'm sorry. I just lost it for a moment..." Donut threw his hands up in the air. "Just listen, alright? O'Malley tricked me. When we were in solitary, he put on a different voice and acted nice and said his name was DuFresne. And you know I had no idea what he looked like! Come on!"

Caboose breathed out slowly, still staring in the opposite direction.

"I... I do not believe you. You and O'Malley were back-to-back. Back-to-back! Like in the movies where only cowboy buddies in gunfights did that..."

"Yeah. Because I thought he was someone else."

"O'Malley cannot act nice."

"Well, he was a bit twitchy. But that was about it... I know, it was stupid. I'm not the brightest guy. Come on."

Caboose tapped his fingers for a few moments before turning around.

"Okay... maybe... maybe I would believe you about that. But what about this?" Caboose held up the book Donut had read to him.

"Yeah? The Magician Who Had Fabulously Happy Times?"

"I asked Mrs. McCrabby. That is not what it says on the front. You lied."

"...Well. I thought the story was too scary, and so I made up a story instead." Donut took a couple of steps closer to the cot. "Come on, you can't break off a friendship because of that. I just didn't want to scare you with disturbing stories like that one."

Caboose lowered the book. Even though he was facing in Donut's direction, he still wasn't looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the book.

"Friends?"

"Yeah..."

"I... then you did not help O'Malley that time?"

"I told you, I didn't know—"

"Not that. Tucker said... that you tricked me into leaving Church and Tucker alone. That is how O'Malley stabbed Church. And Tucker, too. I guess. But Church almost died. Tucker blamed it on you. I did not believe it. Because I thought... when you said we could play with the pigeons together... that you were just being friendly. And that does not happen much..." Caboose blinked quickly, rubbing his eyes. "I was happy."

_I really did trick him that time._

Donut sat down on the cot. "Yeah... that was a fun time."

"Were you tricking me? Please... please tell me you were not tricking me." Now Caboose was staring at Donut. Staring at Donut with those huge, blue eyes just when Donut really didn't want Caboose to look at him.

There was a long moment of silence.

Caboose nodded and looked away again, rubbing his eyes again. "That is what I thought."

"I'm... I'm sorry," Donut said quietly.

"No... it is okay. You... you do not have to pretend to be my friend anymore. Can you leave now? ...I think we are done talking."

"Caboose, please... I said I was sorry. I was terrified of O'Malley, he made me!" Donut got to his feet. "I was scared! I didn't... mean for it to turn into such a clusterfuck..."

"Donut. Get out."

Donut vaguely registered the absence of a pastry-related nickname.


	42. Chapter 41: Present

**Chapter Forty-One: Present**

"You don't look well, York."

York couldn't see a thing, due to the fact that he was holding a cloth to his one good eye, which still stung from the macaroni that had been shoved into it several hours earlier. He was sitting outside the infirmary, and he recognised the voice right off.

"Well, I don't feel well either. Eye stings like hell. That's Wyoming, isn't it? I'd recognise that accent anywhere."

"Indeed." Wyoming approached York. "I was curious as to whether you could do me a favour or not."

"More goods?"

"Yes. Food and cigarettes, mostly. Although there was one item of an unusual nature. Will you be taking time off work due to your eye injury, chap?"

"As long as it takes me to be able to see again. Few days at most. I can't go home until Wash gets off work, though. He's my ride." York stretched his free arm above his head. "If you have the money, I'll get the items for you. As long as they're not illegal."

"Capital."

"On another note... you wouldn't have anything to do with yesterday's riot, would you?"

"Now, why would you think that?"

"I think it might be because you insisted to the Dakota twins that there was a fight going on in the yard which the guards out there couldn't stop and that they had to leave the cafeteria."

"Oh, well... that was just coincidence. The fight just happened to be resolved once they got there. Wyoming looked at the infirmary door. "Surely the aftermath of this riot isn't that bad, is it?"

"We lost five inmates, and there's eight inmates sharing four cots and a table in there. That counts as fairly bad. ...I don't actually know if we're allowed to tell inmates, but you'd find out anyway, wouldn't you?"

"I do tend to hear everything, yes."

* * *

The next week crawled by very, very slowly.

No-one really said much. It turned out that Grif had actually broken a rib during the riot, and hadn't realised it until the day after, thinking he'd just bruised his torso. Since there was still no room in the infirmary, he was spending most of his time in his cell under Doc's orders. Simmons spent almost all his time in Grif's cell, just chilling quietly with him.

Tucker actually seemed marginally happier since the riot. Perhaps because he had managed to beat up Miller with a tray. Miller was one of the many inmates in the infirmary at the moment. That must have cheered up Tucker. Also, it might have just been Donut's imagination, but he could swear Tucker wasn't being quite as mean to him as before. There were still insults aplenty, but it was almost like the riot had been a bonding experience of sorts.

Still, Donut would have traded back for the extra hate if he could get Caboose talking to him again. But Caboose hadn't spoken a word to him since he kicked Donut out of his cell a week ago. It made for a lot of awkward moments. Mostly during meal times. At those times, both Donut and Caboose just ended up staring at their trays of food. Donut did try talking to Caboose on occasion, but Caboose refused to even acknowledge his presence anymore. After a while, Donut just gave up.

Besides, if Caboose had started hating him like he hated Tucker, which Donut figured was a pretty strong chance, then he really didn't want to annoy Caboose too much. He really didn't want to be strangled, or have his head smashed in, or something just as lethal.

As Donut sat in the yard, frowning at the wall, he heard footsteps and a familiar British voice.

"So glad I found you, old chap." Wyoming sat down next to him, holding an unlit cigarette in his mouth. He was carrying a paper bag, and going through it with one hand.

"What's in the bag?"

"Various items. Cigarettes and food, mostly. But I have what you requested, Franklin. May I call you Franklin?"

"Uh, I guess." Though, Donut couldn't recall the last time someone had called him Franklin. Even his mothers called him Donut. How did Wyoming even know his name was Franklin?

"It would have been delivered quicker under normal circumstances, but due to that hubbub last week it was delayed somewhat. My apologies," Wyoming said formally, tossing a smaller paper bag into Donut's hands.

"It's fine." Donut peeked into the bag. "Oh, that's perfect. Don't know if he'll want to take it any more but... thanks a lot."

"My pleasure."

* * *

"Um, Caboose?"

Caboose had been lying on his cot and staring up at the ceiling. He didn't want to leave his cell at the moment. Partly because he was still prone to sneezing fits. But mostly because he wasn't talking to Donut anymore, and since Church was still sitting in a solitary cell there wasn't really anyone else around to talk to. Because Grif and Simmons got annoyed if he followed them around too much, and Tucker was too stupid and too much of a hippokite to talk to.

Caboose sat up to see Donut standing outside his cell again, shifting from foot to foot and holding a paper bag. He looked nervous. That was all that Caboose had time to register before he pulled the thin blanket over his head so he wouldn't have to look at Donut. He heard Donut walk closer to the cot, and felt him place the paper bag on it.

"I know you don't want to talk to me, but... I just thought you might like this."

Caboose didn't answer him.

_Just ignore him. He will go away. Just like those people who call on the phone and ask if you want to buy things. Or the bogeyman. Did the bogeyman ever leave my closet? I cannot remember..._

"It's just... you said you liked having something to hug. And you said you liked pigeons, but since Wash kept taking them away... uh. You know. Anyway, I'll... um. I'll just leave now. Sorry again."

_Ignoring always works. It is almost as good at working as hurting people is. But hurting people is bad. Although, that is what Donut said, and Donut was lying about everything else... But I do not think Church liked me hurting people, either. And Church would not lie. Not like Donut._

Caboose heard Donut leave the cell, heard his footsteps get quieter. Caboose removed the blanket from over his head, looking at the paper bag Donut had left behind. Curious, he reached out and gently tipped the contents onto the bed.

It was a stuffed toy pigeon.

Caboose picked it up gingerly, turning it over in his hands. It was very soft and cuddly. A lot more cuddly than the pigeons he had kept in his cell before, the ones that Washingtub kept taking because they were 'unsanitary.' Whatever that meant. And this pigeon didn't smell as bad, although it did smell a little bit like cigarette smoke...

Normally, Caboose would hug any stuffed toy as soon as he picked it up. This time, he just stared at it suspiciously.

"You are some kind of trick," he muttered to the pigeon. "You cannot fool me. Donut brought you here. And you smell like cigarettes. Cigarettes make you die." Caboose turned the pigeon around so it was facing away from him and placed it back on the cot. "Cannot trick me. Not again." He crossed his arms and stared at the pigeon, waiting for it to do something that would prove it was some sort of trick. Not quite realising that, as a toy pigeon, it wasn't going to move at all.

After several minutes, the possibility that this was not a trick came into Caboose's head. But even if it wasn't a trick, he didn't want anything in his cell that would make him think of Donut. He'd already hidden the library book under his bed. He did not want to have to hide more things. And there was still an underlying urge to rip the pigeon's head off, because Caboose was still so sure it was a trick. Things can't play tricks if they don't have heads.

_But it looks so cuddly..._

Caboose continued to shun the pigeon, but his love of stuffed toys and pigeons was getting to him. After several more minutes, Caboose turned the pigeon around to face him again.

"You are not going to do tricks?" he asked the pigeon. The pigeon didn't reply. Caboose nodded. "Okay. You... you can stay. But only because I need something to talk to." Caboose picked up the pigeon and hugged it, although he was still regarding the pigeon with distrust. "You would be... Margretta the Fourth. Yes. That is right." Caboose settled back to lying on the cot, hugging the pigeon close and absentmindedly patting it. It was very cuddly. He lowered his voice to a near-whisper.

"If you do anything mean and tricky, I will rip your head off. Okay?"

The toy pigeon still didn't reply. But Caboose decided it had gotten the message.

* * *

Sarge dropped the phone on the receiver angrily.

"Damn families. A few inmates die, and suddenly it's 'how could you let my son die' or 'why is my husband hurt so' or 'why aren't you guards doing your job.' Buncha whiners. We're doing a great job! And the less inmates, the better! That means less criminals, and that means crime rates go down! What do they know, we're workin' hard."

"Yes, we are. Got any fives?" Flowers asked, holding a hand of cards.

"Go fish, ya dirty Blue."

"Sarge, the name-calling isn't very motivational."

"Just keep playin,' Goldilocks." The phone rang again. "Goshdarn whiners. Can ya tell them I'm in a meeting?"

"That's dishonest, Sarge. And dishonesty only brings down the team."

"Just do it, pansy. And put on a girly voice. Secretaries are always women." Sarge picked up the phone and held it out to Flowers, who picked it up. This wasn't the first time Sarge insist Flowers pretend to be a female secretary. It was far too easy for Flowers to slip into a feminine voice.

"Hello, ma'am. I'm sorry, but Sarge is in a meeting right now. Oh, of course I'm referring to the warden. ...No, it isn't a strange title, that's his actual name. Can I take a message?" After a long pause. "Thank you for your concern. Good-bye." Flowers hung up and immediately switched back to his normal voice. "She demanded to know about her husband's injuries and also said to call you a psychopathic dumbass. She was quite loud."

"Right. Don't care."

The phone rang again. Flowers picked it up without being asked.

"Hello. I'm sorry, but Sarge is in a meeting right now. No, I'm not just pretending to be the secretary. Can I take a message? ...oh." Flowers covered the mouthpiece. "It's your wife. She recognised my 'secretary voice.'"

"Oh, codfish. Not again."


	43. Flashback: Chapter Two

**Flashback – Part Two**

When nineteen-year-old Church snuck back into his home at two in the morning and immediately stumbled upon broken beer bottles, he knew that was a bad sign. It meant his father was in one of his moods, and when he was mad he tended to lash out at Eddie. Church had very explicit instructions for Eddie when this happened. 'Hide somewhere that Dad can't find you and wait there until I get home.'

Most of the time, Church would get home and Dad would either be passed out or still raging. That was when Church would get some of the anger, though usually focused on trivial matters like 'stop taking my beer, I earned that shit.' Sometimes Church had to duck a bottle or two. But eventually Dad would pass out, Church would find Eddie and make sure he was okay. It wasn't ideal, but it kept them going.

So upon finding the broken beer bottles, Church was worried but it wasn't any different than during the other 'moods.' Until he heard thudding noises coming from the living room. Followed by a short yelp.

"Eddie?" Church called out uneasily. He didn't get a reply. He headed towards the living room. He had to pass through the kitchen on the way there. It was dark, given that it was two in the morning and all, so Church didn't notice what a mess the kitchen was until he bumped into a piece of rubbish with his shoe. He found the lights and switched them on.

He'd accidentally kicked an empty juice box that was lying on the floor. For one naïve moment, he thought that the splatters of liquid on the kitchen floor was apple juice, until he realised that apple juice wasn't that red...

_Oh god, no..._

"Eddie? Eddie?!" Church yelled, shoving open the door to the living room. There was blood in here too, a small trail of it leading all the way to a cupboard. A cupboard which used to belong to his mother. She mostly kept random knick-knacks in there. It had barely been opened since she died.

And in front of that cupboard, half-collapsed on the floor, was Church's father. Holding a broken beer bottle in one hand and thumping on the cupboard door with the other. He was making noises that sounded vaguely like words, but they might as well have been in a different language.

"Dad, what the fuck are—oh shit."

Church then saw the wound in his father's leg. A long, semi-deep gash that was the source of all the blood. A wave of different feels swooshed around in his stomach. Revulsion—_oh god, that's a lot of blood_—fear—_oh, shit, how did that happen_—relief—_oh, thank God, Eddie isn't the one bleeding_—

Eddie's voice interrupted his train of thought. It came from inside the cupboard.

"Leo?!"

He'd never heard Eddie so terrified.

"Unlosh... fuckin'... doorrr..." his father mumbled incoherently, thumping on the cupboard door.

"Dad, seriously, what the fuck?! What the... just... fuck!"

"Unlosh... doorrr! Little shit fuckin'..."

"Leo!" Eddie screamed. "He's gonna get me! I didn't mean... I was scared... I don't wanna... help!"

Church had no idea what the hell was going on. He only knew that Eddie was in trouble. So he did the first thing that came to mind. He reached out and shoved his father away from the cupboard. While his father was a much bigger man, he was ridiculously drunk and trying to stand on a wounded leg, so he toppled over easily.

"Dad! Stop it! Fuck off and leave Eddie alone, you drunk piece of—oh, whatever, like you'd listen..." Church turned his back on his father, who was just flopping around on the floor like a dying fish, and went to see what kind of lock the cupboard had on it. Only to find that the cupboard wasn't locked at all.

_Shit. If he'd been sober enough to realise it wasn't locked... what would he have done to Eddie? Eddie might have got hurt. Or worse._

Casting a wary eye in his father's direction, Church quickly pulled open the door. Eddie was curled up inside between a few rolls of old gift wrap and some old photo albums. He was covered in blood and holding a knife. His father immediately let out an angry, illegible yell and tried to get up, but Church lashed out with a foot and kicked him back, making sure he stayed down. He scooped up Eddie and ran out of the room. On that leg, and that drunk, Dad wasn't making it very far. At least not that night.

_What about tomorrow?_

Once on the other side of the house, where they could only distantly hear Dad groaning and flopping around, Church put down Eddie and started checking him over for injuries.

"Shit. Shit, Eddie, what'd he do? What the fuck happened?" he muttered.

"I'm... I'm not hurt," Eddie mumbled. "He... I w-was staying in my room, like you... you told me to. But I... I got hungry. And I wanted a sammich and some... some apple juice. So I went out and... and then he saw me and he started shouting and waving his b-bottle at me and I thought h-he was going to hurt m-me... and I..." Eddie held up the knife for a moment before he broke into tears and started sobbing into Church's jacket. " I w-was really scared..."

_...Well, shit._

"Okay, uh... okay." How was he meant to respond to Eddie basically admitting that he attacked their father with a knife?

_But who could blame him? It's only a matter of time before Dad gets even worse. Something bad is only a bad mood away. Stupid. Should have called Social Services when I had the chance..._

_And what happens if I call them now? They won't let me take care of him. They won't let us stay together. I can't let them separate us. But I can't let Dad scare Eddie anymore. I have to... I have to stop Dad. I have to make sure he can't hurt us, that he can't call us back, that he can't... can't do anything to us._

"Eddie. I'm going to need you to go to the bathroom, wash all the blood off, and then change clothes and put the icky clothes inside a plastic bag. Can you do that?" Church asked, his voice unnaturally calm given his thoughts. But one of them had to be calm. "And give me the knife, okay?"

"But... but what if Dad..."

"Dad won't hurt you. I'll make sure of it. Just go to the bathroom. Quickly."

Eddie swallowed nervously, handed the knife to Church and ran out of the room. Once Church heard the bathroom door close, he looked down at the knife in his hands for a few moments before walking back to the living room.

His father had apparently given up on climbing to his feet, and was just sitting there attempting to drink out of a broken bottle. Harmless to a nineteen-year-old holding a kitchen knife. Not so much to Eddie.

Church stared down at him. His father stared back blearily.

"Leonard?" he mumbled, sounding confused more than anything. Little anger despite the fact that Church had just kicked him twice.

There never used to be anger. This house used to be an actual home. An actual family. Loving mother. Loving father. Thirteen-year-old Leonard. Happy. A little corny to think of it, but goddamn it was warm and sappy and it was awesome.

And then Eddie came along. His mother got pregnant and there were too many complications during birth... by the end of it, their little, idyllic family was reduced to one dead mother, one grieving, drunk father and two kids with no-one to take care of them.

For the first couple of year's after his mother's death, Church kept hoping that eventually his father would come to his senses. That he would stop getting drunk. That he would start working again or doing anything other than drinking and watching television. That he'd stop blaming Eddie for his mother's death. That they'd be a proper family again.

But it never happened.

It never would.

"Sorry," Church muttered under his breath, before gripping his father's hair and yanking his head back, exposing the neck. This was met by some half-hearted resistance, but he was just too drunk to protest too much. Maybe because he hadn't realised what Church was doing.

Church kept holding his father's head back with one hand, and tightly gripped the knife with the other.

_Do it._

_Maybe there's a better—_

_Do it._

_What if I just—_

_DO IT._

Church closed his eyes and, with one fast motion, sliced his father's throat out.

Blood sprayed all over Church's sleeve. Slashing out someone's throat was not only really messy, soaking the carpet in blood, but it also wasn't as instantaneous as Church had thought it would be. He let go of his father and stumbled back as the man's fingers scrambled at his throat, instinctively trying to stop the bleeding, and he continued to writhe around in his own blood.

Church didn't move until his father stopped writing around. When it was down to just the occasional twitch, Church tried to stand. Only to find out that his legs didn't want to hold.

He heard a small intake of breath behind him and saw Eddie hiding behind the doorframe, staring at the mess that Church had made.

"Ed... Eddie, I said you need to clean the blood off—" Church started shakily, sounding much less calm than a couple of minutes ago.

"Daddy said... Daddy said I was a murderer. He said I killed Mama... and I... now he is dead, too." Eddie blinked a few times before staring up at Church. "Did I kill Daddy, too? Did I... make you have to do that?"

Church took a deep breath in. He was trying not to freak out, but taking a deep breath actually made it worse, because the coppery smell of blood was hanging in the air. What he had done was finally catching up to his mind.

"Oh god... oh god!" Church dropped the knife. "Oh god... oh dear fucking god, I killed him."

Eddie didn't say anything, he just reached out and clung to Church's jacket. After a few moments of silence, he started crying and buried his face in Church's jacket again. Only to shriek and let go because the jacket was soaked in blood.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry..." he sobbed.

"No... no. Don't listen to that... that..." Church swallowed nervously, before speaking again. "Finish washing and put on some fresh clothes, okay?"

Eddie looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. "Don't... I don't wanna be left alone!"

"You'll be safe. I promise. I just... need a moment to think."

Eddie let go of his jacket and left the room, trying to keep as far away from his father's body as possible. Church listened to Eddie's footsteps, waiting for the sound of the door closing. As soon as he heard their bedroom door close, Church collapsed next to his father's body and started crying. Crying more than he had ever since his mother died.

_Oh god, what am I gonna do? Why did I do this? Why didn't I think this through?! What the fuck was I... there's no way out. No way out! If I say it's Eddie, they'll take him away. If I say it was me, they'll lock me up and Eddie will be taken away anyway. Even if I could convince the police that Dad was killed by someone else, they won't let us stay together. They won't let a nineteen-year-old with no legal job take care of Eddie... I... I don't know what to do... why did I do this?_

Church smacked the ground, tears streaming down his face. Trying to think of a solution, any solution...

After a while, Church stopped and wiped his eyes. He didn't want Eddie to see him like this. Didn't want Eddie to know he was just as scared. He had to be the tough one.

_There might be a way. But we'd have to leave fast. No-one will check the house for a while, no-one ever visits Dad, and no-one ever visits us. We'd have a head start before they found Dad... The neighbors wouldn't think anything new of the noise, they're used to Dad's yelling, there'd be time... But... I don't know..._

Church picked up the knife he had used. He left the room, found a pair of gloves and a plastic bag before returning. Church picked up the knife while wearing the gloves, wiping the handle off to try and hide his fingerprints. He dropped the knife back in the puddle of blood. Church checked his father's pockets, finding his wallet. It didn't have much in it, but it would be enough to catch a train.

Church checked around for anything valuable before walking back to his and Eddie's room and dumping both the wallet and the bag he used while stealing on the bed. Then he went into the bathroom to find Eddie. He was still having trouble getting the blood off his hands.

"Come here." Church picked Eddie up and sat him on the counter. Picking up a towel, he dampened the edge of it in the sink and started scraping the semi-dried blood off Eddie's hands and face. Eddie had still been crying, as was obvious from the streaks down the side of his face where the tears had stopped the blood from setting, but he seemed to calm down now that Church was taking care of him.

"Are they going to arrest me?" Eddie asked.

"No. Even if it was your fault, I wouldn't let them. They'd have to arrest me first." Church wiped the towel against the gaps between Eddie's fingers, making sure there wasn't a speck of blood left. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have left you alone."

"But—"

"What's done is done, Ed. It doesn't matter now." Once all the blood was gone, Church lifted Eddie and placed him back on the ground. "Okay, now change your clothes already. Make sure your clean clothes include a hoodie. Then wait in our room and I'll come get you."

Eddie nodded and left. Church washed the blood off himself as well, before rifling around the bathroom drawers until he found a razor. He quickly shaved off his goatee, not wanting there to be any facial features that were particularly noticeable. He'd had his goatee since he was fifteen, so nearly everyone who knew him recognised it. He would have done more to disguise himself, but they needed as much time to run as they could get. A shave and a hoodie would have to do.

Once Church had finished, he returned to their bedroom. Eddie was sitting on the bed wearing different clothes. Church changed clothes, too, and dumped all the bloody clothes inside a plastic bag. Then he bent down and tugged Eddie's hood over his head, adjusting the hoodie to make sure it was on properly.

"We're leaving, okay?" Church told him quietly. "We're going to travel as fast as possible. You're gonna have to be a big boy and try not to cry or panic. We can't talk to strangers. But we especially can't talk to people we know. We just have to get out of the state as fast as possible."

"Where... where are we going?" Eddie asked shakily.

"I don't fucking—I don't know. But somewhere safe. Somewhere we can stay together." _I hope._

"Are we coming back?"

Church sighed as he finished adjusting Eddie's hoodie. "No. We're not."

"But we will still be together?"

"Eddie, there is nothing out there that will make me leave my little brother behind. Okay?" Church hugged Eddie tightly, and Eddie clung tightly back. "I... I promise we'll be okay. It'll be okay."

_I hope it will be. Dear fucking god, I hope it will be._

* * *

Eighteen-year-old Simmons sat in a chair at the family's dining table. Perfectly dusted, with a vase sitting in the middle. Filled with perfect daisies. Of course. Fucking house. But his parents weren't wearing their usual fake, overly cheerful smiles. That was amazing in itself.

Simmons' father was sitting across from him, looking more furious than Simmons had ever seen him. Simmons tried to recall seeing his father with any emotion other than bland happiness. He couldn't. But he was certainly seeing it now. His father's face was actually red. Red! His mother was standing in the corner of the kitchen, dabbing at her eyes with a perfectly embroidered handkerchief. Simmons wondered why she even had a handkerchief, seeing as he'd never seen her even catch a small cold before. Or cry, for that matter. His sister wasn't there. She had taken one look at her parents, muttered something about cheerleading practice and bolted out the door.

Part of Simmons, the part that still craved approval, curled up in fear and shame from these reactions. But the rest of him was enjoying the moment. Provoking this sort of reaction meant his parents were actually paying attention.

"Dick. Explain what I just saw. If you tell me it wasn't what it looked like, I'll believe you and we'll forget this ever happened," his father said steadily, staring at him expectantly. Simmons tugged at his sleeves. He'd been waiting for this moment, and expecting it, for years. But it was difficult to look up. He glanced up occasionally before returning to gazing at his hands. His father was still bright red in the face, and his mother was still dabbing at her eyes, but this was a large improvement to their initial reaction. That had included a lot of screaming and, in his mother's case, fainting. They had behaved like they'd found him doing heroin or keeping hookers in the closet.

"It was exactly what it looked like," Simmons said calmly. It felt good to get it out. To say something that his father considered imperfect that was actually heard rather than ignored. Confronted with the physical evidence as he had been, his father really had no choice in the matter.

"Don't say that to me, Dick."

"It's the truth."

His mother had started crying again. Simmons resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had suspected the reaction would be something like this. But still...

They were acting like he set his school on fire. All he had done was kiss a guy in their living room. Talk about an overreaction. But this wasn't the first time Simmons had tried to tell his parents that he at least somewhat liked men.

He'd known for years. After a while, he'd decided to try and tell his parents. That had been three years ago. It had started with hints. Just offhand comments about male attractiveness. Then he'd tried outright stating it. First politely. When that hadn't worked, Simmons had tried to make things clear by using the most vulgar language he could think of. The f-word had never been spoken so much (if at all) in their house until that moment. His parents still managed to ignore it. Simmons even tried purchasing gay porn and 'accidentally' leaving it in the VCR. That hadn't worked, however, because it turned out that someone had switched the tape with one of the Teletubbies. Simmons had been too embarrassed to try and purchase another tape, the first one had been difficult enough as it was.

None of this had worked, and it had been grinding on Simmons' nerves. Yes, he liked order and certain types of perfection. He took pride in keeping up brilliant grades. But his parents took it too far and, dammit, he just wanted them to acknowledge that not everything was perfect. If he couldn't get his father to acknowledge that he'd never be a good football player or wouldn't be the sort of son he could talk about manly but wholesome matters with... if nothing else, he at least wanted his father to acknowledge the fact that he sometimes liked men.

So, he'd gone to the logical next step. Physical evidence. Paid five dollars to a guy in his class to help him give a visual demonstration. It'd been embarrassing and kind of awkward (the guy just hadn't been his type at all, and was kind of an icky kisser, honestly) but it had done the trick. His parents definitely weren't ignoring it anymore.

"Dick! Why the hell would you do something so... so... wrong?" his father roared.

"Because I wanted to. And you shouldn't be so surprised, I've been trying to tell you for years that I like guys." Simmons fiddled with his fingers, not looking his father in the face. "Also, kicking my friend out of the house wasn't very nice. Didn't you say good hospitality was—"

"Don't be a smartass!" His father stood up. "He's not allowed in this house. You are not allowed to bring people like... that... into the house."

"I am a person like that. Does that mean I'm not allowed to be let into the house?" Eighteen years of frustration and smartass comments were spilling out.

His mother raised her voice. "You know what? I haven't started cooking dinner yet! I think I better do that now!" She picked up some saucepans and started making as much noise as possible in an attempt to block out Simmons' words.

"You're not allowed. Men cannot like other men, it violates nature. Would you leave your mother without grandchildren?"

"So what? You have another kid. Wouldn't she do a better job, anyway? She's never disappointed you," Simmons muttered bitterly. "She's the perfect airheaded cheerleading daughter, and she'll be the perfect domestic wife with no ambitions of her own, right? Because apparently this family lives in a 50's advertisement. Besides, you can't forbid—"

"Don't tell me what I can and can't forbid, Dick. Clearly, you need a therapist to help you deal with this problem!"

"What problem? If I need a therapist, it's because I grew up in a family of robots!" Simmons shouted back. "Look, I'm sorry I can't be the perfect son you always wanted. I'm sorry I don't even look like I'm part of the family. Honestly, might want to check if any of the mailmen delivering the newspaper eighteen years ago have a resemblance—"

Simmons' mother gasped in a slightly melodramatic manner, while his father roared, "WHAT DID YOU JUST IMPLY ABOUT YOUR MOTHER?"

"Well, I couldn't think of another reason! But you... you could at least acknowledge that I'm not fucking perfect! You wouldn't accept the hatred of football or the fact that I'm terrible at basically everything you consider manly. But... just acknowledge that I'm kind of gay. I mean... I'm only halfway there, but... can't you just accept that?"

Simmons' mother kept rattling saucepans in an attempt to block out the argument, but it was no longer necessary. Both he and his father had run out of words. There was silence for a few long moments, apart from the clanging of kitchenware.

His father, now a brighter red than Simmons had even thought possible, took a long, deep breath. His face didn't dim in colour, though.

"Fine. I accept you are a fruit. Now get out of my house and don't come back until you're fixed," he said calmly. Simmons stared back at his father for a moment.

"Gladly. Don't hold your breath for a fix."

It only took five minutes for Simmons to grab the things he needed and leave the house. He'd had a feeling that his father throwing him out was a very viable option, and had packed what he needed beforehand. He even had plans to sleep in his schoolmate's car until he found his own place.

Wasn't like he could miss a bunch of robots, anyway.

* * *

Tucker could charm his way into anything when he was a kid. This was because children are adorable, and a particularly adorable kid can turn most adults into puddles of goo. Very profitable goo.

Once Tucker became a teenager... things changed. Adults don't turn into puddles of goo over teenagers. They just suspect you of being a gang member. Especially when you're the son of a drunken prostitute. As well as being unable to con adults anymore, Tucker couldn't con children anymore. Well, that wasn't true. He could. But conning children when you're not a child is just wrong. Plus, most of the teenagers around his neighbourhood were wise to him by now.

It became pretty clear to sixteen-year-old Tucker that if he was going to get anywhere with his cons, he'd have to stop winging it. He'd have to find new marks. He'd have to find somewhere where he was more than a son of a whore.

It was time to leave. The conversation about him moving out had been quick.

"Hey, Ma? I'm going to move out."

"Sure, go crazy. ...Where's my fucking bottle?"

"In your hand."

"Thanks, sweetie..."

Tucker was sure his mother would be fine. As long as she didn't set the house on fire again, she could probably live on her own. She'd managed it before Tucker was old enough to cook. Of course, she'd probably been a little more sober back then...

Tucker shook his head to try and clear thoughts of his mother out.

_That was then. This is now. Stop having second thoughts, it's not like you could take care of her forever. And if you become a great con-artist, maybe you can pay her enough so she won't have to work as a hooker anymore. Nothing was ever going to change in that dump._

First off, Tucker had to stop winging it. So he needed to know more about conning than the little he'd learned from experience. And he figured, the best way to figure out that was to ask around.

Of course, Tucker was mostly going on movies he had seen at this point, and so he'd come to the conclusion that a bar would be the best place. Digging for information enough, he'd managed to find a bar in one of the shadier sections of the city which was something of a meeting place for low-level criminals. Of course, he was underage. But fake ID wasn't really that hard to get hold of. If only the damn babyface would stop giving him away...

The bartender currently checking his ID wasn't fooled.

"If you're going to lie about your age, kid, at least make it plausible," he muttered. "What are you? Twelve?"

Tucker groaned and slumped slightly on the bar counter. "Fine, I'm sixteen. Can I stay if I just drink water?"

"No-one really cares. Don't know if you noticed, but you're not in the most law-abiding section of town. You want appletini without the tini?"

"Don't patronize me, man. But okay. And I do know this is a bad area."

"And I know that you know." The bartender dumped a glass of apple juice (complete with little pink umbrella) in front of Tucker. "From the look of you... babyface, fluffy hair..."

"Babyface? That's rich," Tucker complained. The bartender did have a very round, childish face, which the short haircut and smart brown suit didn't do much to counter.

"Quiet, you. Anyway, I think I know who you are. Not your name, but you're that newbie con who has been hanging around lately."

"How did you know that?"

"I hear things. And from what I've heard, you aren't that great a con artist. You're giving the other cons a bad name."

"Hey, I'm not a newbie con. I've been conning since I could talk," Tucker muttered. "What do you know?"

"More than you'd think. I have a lot of sources. So, why'd you come here if you didn't come to drink yourself under the table? Which is a bad idea around here around here because someone will steal your wallet, no exceptions."

"Well... I just want to learn more about conning. Thought maybe if I watched other cons do that I'd learn something."

The bartender grinned. "Well, most con artists won't let you just follow them around while they do their thing. Now, there's some who might mentor you a little for a reasonable price. And others might even let you assist. Younger kids can be invaluable in the right situations."

"Really..." Tucker poked the umbrella sticking out of his drink.

"Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I could tell you more about the con artists around here that may require help... but that information is classified."

"What is that, the codephrase for 'I'll only tell you more if you pay me money?'"

"Yep."

Tucker rifled through his pockets. "I... have twenty bucks. That's it."

"Good enough." The bartender reached out and took the twenty bucks. "This information is still classified, so don't go around telling everyone who asks. If you do anything to betray fellow con artists, then the punishment is anything from us preventing you from ever pulling off another successful con, removing a limb or death. Depends on who you snitch on. Understand?"

"Yeah, I gotcha."

"Alright. Let me point out some of the regulars." The bartender put down the glass he'd been cleaning and leaned over the counter, lowering his voice a little and gesturing at a group of muscular men with blue-tinted hair in the corner. "Well, there's Smith and his friends. You ever want their help? Just offer them something mechanical, they have this weird obsession with technology. Find some kind of old computer and they'd probably trade you their kidneys. Hard to understand if you don't know the language, though."

"What language?"

"It's difficult to pronounce the name of it." The bartender gestured this time at a couple of guys who were sitting at a table, in debate about something. "Those two are Jones and Joannes. Don't ask me which one is which, because I can never remember. I think... Joannes is the British guy?" The bartender raised his voice. "Which one of you is Jones?"

"Uhhh. Me?" the British one said, looking bemused. "Why?"

"No reason."

"What—oh, nevermind."

The bartender lowered his voice again. "Decent cons. Not imaginative, but they get the job done when they have to." The bartender pointed out a bald man with light blue eyes sitting by himself in the corner. "That's Gary. Best liar I've ever met, but he's rather pathological about it so he's not trustworthy, even for a con artist. Also, he never shuts up with the knock-knock jokes."

Tucker nodded. "Right. No tells to figure out when he's lying?"

"I told you, he's the best. I've never even heard him project emotion into his voice. Yet somehow... he's just really good at lying, alright?"

"That's just stupid, if he has no emotion going on it's just like a machine is talking to you. What kind of con-artist are you, if you don't know that?"

"Don't patronize me... Lavernius? Is that your name?" The bartender raised the fake ID. "Or is this ID wrong in more areas than age?"

"I prefer Tucker. Lavernius is..."

"Sissy sounding?"

"Yeah. Hey, I want your name, too."

"You can call me C.T. Most people do. Now, first off... don't talk to me like I don't know what I'm doing. I con, amongst other things. And if there's a number one rule around here, it's this. Don't get on my bad side or I will ruin you. Got it, babyface?"

"I'm not a babyface! ...But sure. Just don't get all... evil and gangstery—"

"Gangstery isn't a word."

"—on me."

"Stick on my good side and I think we'll get along fine." C.T grinned at him before returning to organizing glasses. "Now, I'll cut you a deal. I'll set you on the right path. Point you in the direction of simpler cons. Maybe teach you some things. In return, I get twenty percent of the profits."

"Deal."

* * *

Grif sighed, looking at the apartment door. He was holding the 'roommate required' notice in one hand, and clasping Sister's hand in the other.

It had been five years since their mother left. She'd sent money on occasion to help them for those five years, but those payments had gotten progressively fewer until they stopped all together. To be honest, Grif was surprised the payments lasted as long as they did. But the absence of them meant there was not enough to pay the bills, so they had to move out. For the last three days, the two of them had been sleeping in Grif's beat-up car.

Grif had found the advertisement for a roommate the day before, and had called briefly to check whether it was still open. It was. However, he'd neglected to mention Sister. He was hoping he could play the pity card where that was concerned, although if it was a particularly sleazy guy he wouldn't risk living there. He didn't want Sister getting another STD.

Sister peeked around Grif, looking at the door as well.

"This is kinda exciting," she said cheerfully. "It'll be kinda cool to live somewhere that doesn't have neighbours complaining about the pot smell."

Grif rolled his eyes. "I told you, no more pot. Or anything else."

"You're a killjoy, Dex."

Grif knocked three times and waited. After a long time of waiting, he knocked again. After a longer time of waiting, he knocked as loud as he could and yelled.

"Hey! You said we could check the place now!"

Grif heard some muffled grumbling, and after several long moments the door was pulled open. The man standing there - only three or four years older than Grif - looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. Mostly because he was still wearing maroon pyjamas and a bathrobe.

"Are you the guy who wanted to check the apartment? It's only nine in the morning." he mumbled. He looked past Grif at Sister, and quickly wrapped his bathrobe tighter around himself. "You didn't say you were bringing a girl."

"It's only nine? Our car clock said it was eleven," Grif said. "Must be broken. Can we come in and look around, anyway? You're already up and we've already seen your dorky bathrobe."

_Grif, stop antagonizing the guy or he won't let you stay. Dumbass._

The man's ears had gone a bit red at the comment about his bathrobe. But he shrugged and opened the door wider.

"I guess."

The tiny apartment was shabby, but it was very tidy. Everything was stacked neatly, and Grif could swear that the books on the shelf in the corner were alphabetized. Alphabetized! Who alphabetizes their books? Science fiction books at that. What a nerd.

"Uh... so, I never got a name?" Grif said, looking around. The man took a while to respond, presumably because he was still tired.

"Simmons."

"Okay. I'm Grif, that's Sister."

"Her name is actually Sister?"

"Well, not really. That's just what everyone calls her for some reason. Man." Grif looked around again. "This place is freakishly clean. You some kind of nerdy neat freak?"

_Dammit. My brain isn't connected to my mouth._

Simmons just glared tiredly at him before shuffling into the kitchen. Grif made to follow him, but then turned to Sister.

"Listen. I gotta pull the whole pity thing on this guy to get him to let us stay here. Can you stay in here, but look depressed or something? Just to help?" Grif whispered.

"Sure, no problem. I'm great at looking depressed," Sister whispered back cheerfully.

"Kickass."

Grif entered the tiny kitchen (which could barely fit both him and Simmons into it) to see Simmons feeling around for the coffee.

"You're not a morning person, are you?" Grif asked.

"No."

"Coffee pot is on your left."

"Huh? Oh. Thanks. Do you and your sister want coffee?"

"Sure. Cream and sugar for both." Grif tilted his head, looking at Simmons' coffee mugs. "Do your coffee mugs actually have binary code printed on them?"

"Shut up."

"I'm not making a great impression, am I?"

"No. You're not. I don't really care, I'm planning to spend most of my time away from you even if you do move in. But..." Simmons pointed in the direction of the living room. "I can't fit another person in here, there's only one bed. And I don't want a girl living here, it'd be way too awkward."

"We can share one bed, it's better than sleeping in a car. I actually prefer sofas, what with them being near the TV and all. But this is the only place at the moment that we can afford the rent for. Our mum left us a few years back, and we never knew our dad. Or dads, I can't remember if me and Sister have the same dad, our mum was very evasive on that subject..."

"Don't try the whole sob story thing on me, okay?" Simmons told him. "I don't care."

_Damn. I might have to resort to begging if this keeps up._

"Come on. How can you look at Sister and basically say 'you're going back on the streets?'" Grif gestured back at the living room. "Look."

Simmons glanced through the doorway. Sister was sitting on the sofa, staring at the wall. Occasionally, she would let out a slightly melodramatic sigh. Simmons looked back at the coffee cups. He was still frowning, but he looked like he was thinking about it.

"I know I'm kind of an ass," Grif added. "And I'll try not to be, but I really need to find a place for Sister. I could handle living in a car, but I don't want her to. And I can't let her live somewhere by herself, because I don't want her getting mugged or getting other STD or whatever. We just need somewhere to live until I can get enough money to pay the rent for a place of our own. We'll be out of your hair before you know it."

Simmons finished making coffee and handed a mug to Grif. "Let me think about it for a few minutes."

"Okay."

"If you do start living here... ground rules are 'don't make a huge mess' and 'stay out of my room and workplace. Same area, so... just stay out of my room. At all times. You got that?"

"Hey, I can do that. Give me a little credit. My only rule would be 'don't fuck my sister.' Or offer her any pot or drugs, because she would take them. As long as Sister is fine, I really don't care what else happens. Seeing as you look like a nerdy prude who won't even J-walk for fear of getting arrested, I think those rules pretty safe."

Simmons' ears went a bit redder. "Yeah. Right," he mumbled quickly.

"Sorry, I'll try to cut down on the insults. Can we stay? Pleeeeeease?"

Simmons looked between Grif and where Sister was sitting and melodramatically sighing. "Alright. You can stay. Just stay out of my room. I'll probably be in there most of the time, anyway."

"Cool. We'll just get our stuff from the car."

"You really live in the car? I thought you were just lying to get pity points."

Grif grinned. "Playing up the melodrama, maybe. Sis! We're staying!"

Sister immediately stopped her wistful sighing. "Woohoo! Let's raid the alcohol supply to celebrate!"

Simmons slapped his forehead. "Great... I'm regretting this already."

"No take-backs."

* * *

"Guys, noooo... I have to go somewhere!"

Seventeen-year-old Caboose was trapped by a pile of six children who refused to climb off him. "Guys, I love being dogpiled normally, but if you don't get off me I won't have time to pick up ice-cream on my way back!"

"Ice-cream?"

"Yes, ice-cream. That kind that's three flavours?"

After a few moments of consideration, four of Caboose's younger sisters rolled off him. Enough to let him climb to his feet, even if there was still two four-year-olds holding onto him. Caboose's mother waded out of the kitchen. Drastically pregnant and hair still in rollers, as usual. She was holding the phone.

"Mikey. Your dad is on the pho—"

Caboose grabbed the phone quickly. "Hey, dad. Yeah, sure. I'd love to talk. But, uh... phone is having problems. See?" He picked up an empty chip packet lying around and crinkled it near the receiver. "Too much static. Losing you. What a tragedy." He slammed the phone back on the receiver. "Guh."

"Mikey. Are you lying to your father again?" his mother asked sternly.

"Uh... kind of."

"Kind of?"

"Okay, completely. But I don't want to visit him... he always has strange women sleeping there. And I kept walking in on them... you know." Caboose went a little pink before mashing his fingers together. "Less said about that the better, but it was scarring."

Caboose's mother shook her head. "Oh god. Still, can you at least not hang up on him? He's trying to be a good father."

"Yeah. Because taking your son to a strip club is the perfect example of parenting," Caboose muttered. "I'm going to pick up Ella. Guys, let go of my arms!" Caboose shook his arms, which the four-year-olds were still clinging onto. "Come on, I have to pick up your older sister, let go. You're like cuddly leeches!"

"Michael, don't call your sisters leeches."

"I meant the good kind!"

Ten minutes later, Caboose was sitting behind the wheel of the old family truck, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along to some random country song from an old cassette his stepfather had. Their truck was so old it still took cassettes, not to mention it took a lot longer to pick up enough speed.

_I can't remember which store sells the cheapest ice-cream. Maybe that shop around the corner from school. Yeah, that's the one. Of course, that's where Dad shops, too. Hope he's not there. I need to figure out a way to stop talking to him. Maybe I should just tell it to his face..._

As Caboose pondered, he was driving down a road that was usually quiet. The town was never very busy. Most people only passed by on their way to the city a few miles away.

That day, however...

Caboose heard a screech of tire wheels.

From then on, everything was a blur. All Caboose remembered was looking left and seeing a car speeding directly towards him, and trying to swerve and miss the car... which he did. He missed it, but he skidded right off the road and everything was bumpy and all he could see was the tree getting closer at an alarming spee—

_Son of a—_

And then... that was the last lucid thing he could remember. If you could call the panic of being about to hit a tree lucid. After that...

There was just noise. Loud noise and the worst pain he'd ever felt, especially where his head had hit something really hard, probably the steering wheel but who really knew... And then nothing. Nothing but darkness. For a long time, it was just dark. Then it got brighter. Then the light faded and he was back in the dark again. This happened again and again.

Sometimes he couldn't hear, see or feel anything. At other times, he thought he could hear voices. Crying and yelling and people talking in professional voices. There were times when he could hear a woman's voice saying all these long words that Caboose didn't understand. Sometimes he felt sharp, quick pains in his hands, and he tried to twitch and tell whoever was hurting him to stop. But he could never quite do it.

At one point, he felt like he was drowning. But without the water. Then things got distant and floaty, but then he felt like he was drowning again... and then that stopped, but his head hurt more than ever, and things got all dark again.

There was no way to judge time, because he kept slipping in and out of being aware of things... it was like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from...

Then things started getting brighter. And they stayed bright. They got so bright that his eyes started to hurt, and Caboose didn't want to open them. They felt heavy. He realised there was something stuck in his arm. There was something stuck up his nose, too. Parts of him started to ache, or maybe they always had and he just hadn't noticed. His head felt the worst. It felt... heavy. No, that wasn't the right word... it felt like his thoughts were wading through sludge.

He did manage to open his eyes after a while. The things stuck in his arm and nose were tubes. The one in his arm was attached to a bag of liquid that was hanging from a pole. He could hear a steady beeping in the background.

Someone was adjusting the liquid bag. Caboose tried to turn his head to see them better, but that hurt so he stopped. He did hear them move, looking at him and waving their hand in front of his face, saying something that Caboose didn't quite understand.

Caboose thought he should probably say something back. But he couldn't remember how to form words. He just made a 'eeehhh' noise in response to whatever they were saying. They turned away from him for a few moments, muttering something under their breath, but then they turned back to him and started poking him again. It was kind of annoying...

_Wait a second. Funny, bleeping machines. Lots of whiteness. People who poke you. I am in a hospital... why did that take me so long to figure out?_

The thoughts weren't that specific... it was really more a sense of comprehension and then confusion.

There were footsteps, and a woman wearing a white coat walked in, holding a clipboard. Caboose guessed she was a doctor. It might have just been Caboose's pain-addled brain, but she was extremely pretty. Especially under the bright, hurty lights.

_No. Stop that. You are thinking like Dad._

Again, not exact thoughts. Just feelings. Mixed with a sort of distant feeling, like he wasn't quite all there...

The pretty doctor said a few words that Caboose didn't understand. The words seemed familiar, but... He was starting to feel uneasy, as it finally dawned on him that there was something very wrong. The pretty doctor said something to the other woman standing in the room, before directing her attention back to Caboose. She took a good look at his face, and frowned very slightly. She made a note on her clipboard before saying something. She made gestures to go with what she was saying this time. First she put her hands together with a sympathetic expression on her face, and then made a face like something was hurting her. Then she pointed at him.

_What is she trying to say?_

Caboose got his answer when the pretty doctor reached towards his hand and pressed hard on the fingernail base. It hurt, and Caboose jerked his hand back. He attempted to say 'ow, that hurt', but he wasn't really sure how, so what came out instead was a whine. The pretty doctor looked happier, for some reason.

_So... she meant... 'sorry' and 'hurt'... 'sorry you are hurt?' Or 'sorry, but this will hurt?' I think it was the second one. Because that hurt._

She made another note, and then made more notes while the other woman continued poking him in various ways. Still very annoying.

After a while, the pretty doctor stopped making notes. She pointed at herself a few times. Kept repeating a word. Ph-something. It wasn't quite processing, and when Caboose tried saying it out loud he got stuck. She shook her head and pointed at herself again, using a different word. Easier to say, just two sounds. It was still hard to make the word come out.

"Sh... S-She. Lah." Caboose tried repeating the word. "She-lah. Sheila."

The pretty doctor smiled a little and nodded.

Caboose felt tired, and his eyes kept shutting. He tried keeping them open. He wanted to know why he was sitting in a hospital and not able to understand anyone. But he was very tired. The pretty doctor (was Sheila her name, or just a word she had said a lot?) held her hands together and rested her head on them, in a kind of sleeping gesture. Telling him to sleep?

_But I can't sleep. I want to know what's wrong with me._

Staying awake was too difficult, though. Caboose ended up going to sleep without getting any answers. He probably wouldn't be able to understand them anyway.

* * *

Fifteen-year-old Donut sat in front of the oven, legs crossed and staring at the cake in the oven. Only a few minutes until it was ready. Donut hummed to himself absently, waiting for the oven to tell him to take it out. He hoped he'd gotten the cake right this time. Last time he had grabbed a packet of salt instead of sugar, and the cake had been hideously salty.

Donut heard the door swing open, and heard Mama Liz's happy babbling about one of the soap operas that was on that evening. Donut could identify, he loved the same soaps Mama Liz did. Mama Julie would agree to watching the soaps as long as she could watch the crime shows afterwards. Donut didn't like them as much, since he wasn't really one for the blood and scary criminals. Mama Liz didn't seem to mind them, though. Mama Liz and Julie would spend most of the episode arguing over who the murderer was.

"I smell cake!" Mama Liz entered the kitchen, crouching in front of the oven with Donut. "Ooh, chocolate. Why are you home? I thought you were staying at a friend's house today. Dan, was it?"

"Oh... um, that was... he had something else happening," Donut muttered.

"Really?" Mama Liz tilted her head, looking at Donut with concern. "You don't look happy. Did something happen, Crumbcake?"

"No."

"Aw, you can tell me." Mama Liz sat down on the floor with him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "What happened? You can tell your mama."

Donut shifted uncomfortably. "I got outed."

"Outed? ...Ohhh."

"Yeah. I couldn't keep it contained, and I ended up blurting out to Dan that I'm gay. And he immediately told everybody and won't let me go near him anymore for fear of 'catching the gay.'"

Mama Liz made a small, sympathetic noise, rubbing his shoulder gently. "I know how that feels, sweetie. Same thing happened to me, though with girls obviously. They wouldn't let me in the girl's bathroom afterwards, and they filled my shoes with snails once."

"Ew."

"How did your other friends react?"

"A couple of them made excuses to leave, the others just started acting uncomfortable. It was weird." Donut stared glumly at the chocolate cake that was so close to being cooked. "This means I can stop wearing super-manly clothes, at least."

"That's the silver lining. Now..." Mama Liz hugged him tighter. "Give your friends some time, and they might get over it. And if not, you'll find other friends. I did and Mama Julie did. Not everyone will be all 'ew, gay.' Alright, crumbcake?"

"I guess..."

"You know you can always talk to me or Mama Julie, right?" Mama Liz grinned. "Even if Mama Julie isn't that great at being emotional and cuddly. But she'll try to listen, at least. And I'll supply as many hugs as you need to stay happy. You know, I read a study that says people should have at least four hugs a day."

"That does sound right," Donut said, smiling a little.

"See? Even just the promise of hugs makes you feel better. Now come on, show starts in a few minutes."

There was a small 'ding' from the oven.

"Cake's ready."

"Even better!"

"Is Donut in there?" Donut heard Mama Julie shout. She appeared in the doorway, arms crossed and looking stern. Mama Julie's emotions usually ranged between bored and stern. "I got a telephone call from the principal, said you got into a fight with a kid from school. I want an explanation right now."

Mama Liz let go of Donut's shoulder. "Did you?"

"I may have slapped Dan in the face after he blabbed."

"Oh. Well, boys will be boys, in that case."

Donut pulled the cake out of the oven, pondering the likelihood of Mama Julie being bribed out of anger with cake. Cake makes everything better.

Even though, over the next few minutes, Donut did get grounded and scolded something awful for 'being immature enough to bitch slap someone.' problems such as possibly losing friends because of his sexual orientation didn't seem quite as bad.

Although, as Mama Liz chewed on a piece of cake and insisted that Mama Julie hadn't gotten a fourth hug that day and that was why she was so uptight, while Mama Julie insisted that wasn't so, also chewing on cake and trying to ward off hugs, wearing a 'bored-but-not-really-that-annoyed' expression... Donut decided that it didn't have much to do with the cake. Problems like that just seemed smaller at home.


	44. Chapter 42: Boredom

**Chapter Forty-Two: Boredom**

The days were starting to blend together. Three weeks after the riot, things had definetely settled back into normal routine. But because of that normal routine, nothing really stood out. The activities of the day could easily be listed, with little to no switching of the order. Wake-up, breakfast, roll call, work, lunch, yard time, dinner, back to cells. Punctuated mostly by whatever conversation could be dragged up.

"Hulk or Spiderman, which one would win in a fight?" Simmons pondered.

"Hulk. More stamina," Grif replied, poking at his macaroni.

"But Spiderman has wits and dexterity. Hulk just breaks things."

"Yeah, but wits isn't a superpower. Crazy strength and turning bright green is."

Donut drank his orange juice and tried to think of something that would deviate from normal routine. Meanwhile, Tucker had pushed back his chair to talk with an inmate at the next table and Caboose was using his spoon to mold his macaroni into shapes. The toy pigeon Donut had given him was sitting next to his food. Since Donut had given it to him, Caboose had been carrying it around ever since. However, he still refused to talk to Donut.

"Hey, Dye-Job. You want to buy some sherbet?" Tucker asked, edging his chair back to the table.

"You mean like Fun Dip?"

"Sorta. I mean, it's not... like... store sherbet. It's just bicarb soda mixed with some icing sugar or something. Tastes alright."

"Oh. Then no. I don't like sherbet that much. At least not without those little plastic shovels. My fingers get all powdery," Donut explained, stretching his hands slightly and examining his fingers.

"Alright, jeez. Hey, Caboose. Trade for your orange juice?"

Caboose took a while to answer, as he'd been absorbed in making some sort of macaroni castle. "Does it have the little plastic shovel?"

"No."

"Do not want it."

"Goddammit. I have way too much sherbet..."

Donut swallowed the last of his macaroni. "Then why do you keep buying it?"

"I dunno. I like tricking inmates into thinking I'm selling them something they can snort, but they're all wise to it now. It sucks."

* * *

Tucker had been attempting to nap out of boredom when Wyoming appeared in his cell.

"Tucker, old chap."

Tucker stretched his arms above his head and sat up. "What are you doing in my cell?"

"Just a delivery. I thought you'd prefer I gave this to you here instead of out in the yard. Or was I wrong in thinking that?" Wyoming held out something wrapped in cloth. "A little late, but all my deliveries were delayed."

Tucker uncovered some of the object to see the blade of a shiv underneath. "Nice. Thanks, dude."

"Don't refer to me as 'dude.' It's... not very classy, is it?"

"Dude." Tucker grinned wider. "We're in prison. Prison ain't a classy place."

"That's a fair point, but I make it my business to maintain classiness, regardless of place or time." Wyoming stepped backwards out of the cell, walking back down the corridor. Tucker glanced down at the shiv before covering it with cloth again, hoping there wouldn't be another cell search anytime soon. He leant over to shove it under his bed.

"What's that thing?"

"Fuck!" Tucker shot back up, nearly falling off the bed. "Jesus, Church! ...Wait, aren't you still in solitary?"

Church stepped into Tucker's cell and sat down on the cot. "I was, but they were running out of cells. I'd been in there for a month anyway, so they probably thought that was long enough for me to go insane." Church shrugged. "Which it probably was. I think I almost lost it a couple of times. I hate it when hitting your head against the wall is the best way to pass the time. What's in the cloth?"

"Just more sherbet. I'm running out, you know?" Tucker lied fluently.

"You and sherbet. What is it with you and fucking sherbet?"

"Oh, by the way... a bunch of shit happened while you were locked up. First off, I tried getting Donut's help on getting back at Miller. That didn't pan out, so I just hit Miller a lot with my food tray."

"Oh shit." Church sat up slightly straighter. "I forgot. Donut thinks O'Malley is a different guy."

"He's been corrected, it's cool." Tucker waved his hand vaguely. "Okay, see... there was a riot. A lotta shit happened during it... I beat up Miller, which was awesome... and I think Grif tackled one of Miller's lackeys and broke his rib around that time and Simmons was hitting people with a spoon and there was macaroni everywhere and I think it temporarily blinded York... that shit is lethal, it's probably the worst food to have in a prison."

"Was there a point to all this?"

"Right, I got sidetracked. Sorry, it was a bitchin' riot. Anyway, Caboose saw Donut and O'Malley helping each other. And Donut said that he thought O'Malley was someone else. But then Caboose figured out that Donut tricked him ages ago when O'Malley stabbed you and slashed my face. And now Caboose isn't protecting Donut and he's also started talking to a stuffed pigeon a lot."

"...What the hell?"

"Yeah, it was a total clusterfuck. Now mealtimes are way awkward," Tucker concluded.

"So... Donut has no protection?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Why does your mind go immediately to Donut?" Tucker complained. "Jeez."

"He... hasn't said anything, has he?" Church looked nervous.

"Uh... nothing weird. Well, okay, he says weird stuff... but that's just because Dye-Job is a fucking dumbass. I don't think he gave away anything you wanted him to keep quiet about, though. I would have heard. And Grif and Simmons would have strung me up and chopped off Little Tucker, most likely."

"Probably. Great, now I gotta make sure he hasn't violated the contract. If he has, I'm gonna be pissed." Church climbed to his feet. "You seen him around?"

"Sure, he's probably in the yard. He sits out in the yard because that way he can have a brick wall to his back and people can't sneak up on him," Tucker said. "Hey, want me to come with? If he's lying about telling people, I'll know."

"No!" Church yelled. Then he coughed nervously. "I mean, uh... no. Bad, uh... strategic shit. I told him I wouldn't tell anyone about the deal and all that... uh. I have to go." Church backed out of the cell, shifting uneasily.

Tucker shook his head once Church had gone. _Weirdo. Maybe solitary finally killed his brain._

* * *

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit... What if Donut blabs? I don't want him to fucking blab._

Church looked around the yard, trying to spot the telltale dyed blond hair among the crowd of inmates. He eventually spotted Donut sitting against one of the walls, just staring off into space.

_Okay, just gotta question him about whether he's blabbed about the Tucker thing... gotta be casual about it. Don't want to give off gay vibes. Because there's no gay there at all. God, every time I repeat this in my head it sounds even dumber._

"Hey, Dye-Job! I mean, er, Donut."

_Better not call him Dye-Job until I've figured this out... it wouldn't help._

"Huh? Oh. You're out of solitary. How's things?"

"Not important. Are you gonna blab because you have no protection anymore?"

_Subtlety? Pssh, that's for losers._

Donut blinked slowly. "Protection? ... oh. I totally forgot about that."

_You gotta be fucking kidding me._

"So you haven't told anyone about the hand-holding shit? Because I know you came pretty fucking close to telling O'Malley about it."

"I thought he was DuFresne!" Donut protested. "And I didn't tell him the whole thing... All I said was that I blackmailed you."

"Okay, this is besides the point. You keeping to the deal? Or am I gonna have to cut your tongue out to keep you quiet?" Church paused. "Tex probably wouldn't like that, even if it's not technically killing."

Donut rested his chin on his knees. "Can I think about it?"

"As long as you don't spill while you're thinking, sure." Church scraped his foot along the concrete. "Uh. With the O'Malley thing. He started trying to figure out what had happened in the infirmary and... he came to a fucking weird conclusion."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He thinks we're... man, this is ridiculous. I don't even want to say it, it's so fucking stupid."

"Ooh, now I'm curious." Donut lifted his head a little. "You have to tell me now, it's not fair if you don't."

"Basically, he thinks I'm in love with you. Or that we're fuckbuddies or something."

There was a long moment of silence. Then Donut let out a short, high-pitched giggle.

"Me and you? Really? That's just... really?" Donut said, his voice shaking slightly from the effort of stopping himself laughing more. "That is literally the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Besides, you're older than my mother. Well, one of them."

"You don't have to tell me it's ridiculous." Church sat down. "Now, O'Malley is sedated like Hell right now, but Doc never keeps people on sedatives for long. When he gets out... he'll probably come after you in an attempt to get at me. It's happened before, because O'Malley's a fucking sick bastard."

"Wait. So now I'm in danger... again?"

"Possibly."

"Just because O'Malley is mistaken."

"Yeah."

"That is bullshit!"

"Don't correct O'Malley. If you correct him, he might figure out what really happened, and..."

_And then he'll go after Tucker instead._

Donut seemed to have come to the same conclusion. "Oh, I get it. So if Tucker gets hurt, that's bad. If I do, that's a-okay?"

"Pretty much. I don't like you, sooo..."

"That's true. But I don't like it."

"Oh, suck it up." Church crossed his arms. "Is there anything I can do to make sure you actually keep this all a secret? Because, seriously... you better keep fucking quiet."

_Last time I told him to shut up about it, it was mostly because I was embarrassed. I mean, who wants their best friend to know that they hallucinated and held hands with someone they fucking hated because they thought it was said best friend? But it's more dangerous than that now. I can't let O'Malley know anything. The last time he found out something along these lines... well, it got me in here. In this case, he'll probably do something more violent... can't deal with it. No fucking way._

Donut considered it for a few moments. "Okie doke. I'll keep it a secret. But on one condition."

"What? Is it protection or extra supplies?"

"Can you try and convince Caboose to talk to me again? If he'd listen to anyone, it'd be you. Right?"

"That's your condition?"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"No, I can do that. I was just expecting something more difficult or expensive."

"Can I have some fabric softener, too?"

"You said one condition. No backsies."

"Aw."


	45. Chapter 43: Beatdown

**Chapter Forty-Three: Beatdown**

"Ow, fuck. Get off, Caboose!"

"But... but hugs are good for you!"

"Yeah, not if you crush my fucking ribs at the same time. Get off!" Church managed to shove Caboose out of the nearly lethal hug. Caboose backed away and sat back on his cot, picking up the stuffed toy pigeon again. "I need to talk to you, alright? So can you not crush my ribs until I'm done?"

"Okay!"

Church crossed his arms, frowning. "Can you go back to talking to Dye-Job?"

"Who?"

"Donut."

"Oh. ...Nope."

_Dammit, that was my only plan. Well, my work here is done. Dye-Job did just say 'try.' Besides, them not talking kind of works... that means there's no danger of Donut turning Caboose against me or something. Can't say I wasn't a little worried about that possibility._

"Right, that's cool. I'm gonna go find Tucker, then."

_And now comes the part where he insists on following me everywhere because I'm supposedly his best friend._

"Okay. I am going to have a nap."

"You don't have to fucking follow—wait, what?"

Caboose shrugged. "I am very happy to see you, but I feel like sleeping. Is that okay?"

_...That's not right._

Church stepped a bit closer and looked carefully at Caboose. He seemed fine at first glance. But looking closer, he did look a little tired.

"Caboose. Have you been sleeping badly?" Church asked, squinting at him. Caboose shook his head. Not good. He'd seen people look tired when they shouldn't be, including in the mirror once. A lot of the time it didn't end well. Lonliness was dangerous in prison.

_Dumbass. Three weeks of being by himself and he's already depressed. Wuss. Still... he's not exactly stable at the best of times. Oh, he'll be fine. This isn't as bad as the last time, and I'm here. Not that I'm the best at being... well, fucking nice. Being nice is a once-every-five-years deal. Dye-Job, on the other hand... I guess if this was caused by the shit that happened with him and Dye-Job, that'd probably be a quicker way of fixing things. _

_Hm. Quicker fix and possible betrayal later on, or slower and less certain fix? ...Dammit. Oh well, what are the chances Donut would turn against me anyway? He's a wuss._

"No, sleeping is not okay. Back to the Donut thing." Church paced back and forth for a few moments, trying to think of something to say.

"Cannot talk to Donut anymore," Caboose muttered. "He got you hurt and you almost died. That is very, very bad. Only bad people do things like that."

"Look, first off... I didn't fucking die, so who the hell cares?" _Well, I care. That fucking hurt. _"And second, everyone is a bad person in prison. That's why they're in fucking prison to start off with."

"Not true. You are not a bad person, Church."

_Actually, I'm a horrible person. I'm cool with that, being a bad person beats being a goody-two-shoes pussyfest or something. But that's beside the point._

"Okay, besides me. Whatever. And you already got Donut back for that. You broke his leg, remember?"_ I definitely fucking remember it. A long time of listening to him talk about whatever came into his fucking mind... it was shit._

"Yes. But if I had known he was being evil with O'Malley, I would have broken both like Tucker told me to," Caboose muttered.

_Great. I think I'm just making him angrier. Dammit, this talking shit isn't my thing, it's more a Tucker thing._

"Fine, I'll stop talking about this in a moment. But I'm pretty sure Donut isn't the first O'Malley forced or tricked into doing bad things. Remember when you first came in here? What did O'Malley do?"

"Do not remember," Caboose said evasively.

"Yes, you do. I know I tell you to forget shit most of the time, but I just want you to remember this for a little bit. What did O'Malley fucking do?"

Caboose shifted nervously, before covering the side of the pigeons' head, like he was trying to stop it from eavesdropping. "He made me do bad things. He always hid behind me and I never saw him, so I thought... I thought he was my conscience, and he always told me to do bad things and that they weren't bad things because I was doing them to bad people. But he was lying."

"Yeah, I know. He's a douchebag like that. But you stopped listening to him, right?" Caboose nodded. "Just saying, O'Malley made you do a lot of bad shit. And he made Donut do some bad shit, too. It's a bit hypocritical to hate Donut for it." _I mean, I hate Donut for it, but still._

"Hypo-what?"

"Hippo-kite-ish."

"Ohhh, right. I get it. Like Tucker. He's a hippo-kite." Caboose frowned, removing his hands from the side of the pigeons' head. "I do not know. I need to think."

_Knowing how slow he thinks, that will probably take a few weeks. Jeez._

"Right, whatever. I gotta find Tucker."

"I will follow you. Walking helps me think faster. I do not know why, though. I think it is like how on some bikes, the more you pedal the more the lighty part... lights up."

* * *

"Hey, Dye-Job! You seen Church?" Tucker called out. He'd walked into the yard to look for Church, after remembering that he needed to figure out what to do about Miller. He didn't see Church in the yard, though. Only Donut.

"Uh, yeah. I did, just a little while ago. I think he went to talk to Caboose," Donut said, climbing to his feet. "Seriously. Is the nickname 'Dye-Job' still not getting old?"

Tucker ignored the last part of what Donut said. "Right, whatever. I'm gonna go find him."

"Can I follow you, if you're going to the cells?" Donut jogged after Tucker. "Grif hasn't left his cell much lately except for meals, what with the busted rib and everything... and Simmons hasn't left Grif's cell much either... I should probably see how they're doing. I'd stay there during the day as well, but Grif is super cranky when he's in horrible pain. Mama Julie was like that when she got sick."

"Yeah, I don't really care about anything your mama did." Tucker shrugged. "Well, guess that works. We gotta figure out a way to stop Miller from getting us, anyway. A way that doesn't involve killing him."

"Well, yeah. Killing people isn't really a nice thing to do," Donut muttered, as Tucker steered him back inside the prison, passing the cafeteria and heading down the corridor towards the cells.

"Hey, I would. But Church is totally against killing Miller, since he promised Tex he wouldn't kill people anymore. He's totally whipped, poor bastard. And what's the point of being whipped if you don't get sex out of it? Anyway, originally we were going to get you to find some weakness we could poke at. But, since he somehow figured out you were digging for info, that's out. And now that he knows you were helping us, there is no way you're getting out of it unless you want to get really hu—"

Going past the cells, Tucker was cut off by Miller stepping out of one of the cells and smashing him over the head with a shoe. Donut jumped back, letting out a girly yelp.

_Speak of the devil. _

"Grab them, fellas," Miller muttered. Almost instantly, his friends jumped out and grabbed Tucker and Donut by their arms, dragging them into one of the cells.

"Were you guys just waiting for us to walk by?" Tucker grumbled as he was dragged in.

"Actually, we were hoping for you and Church, not the fruity guy." Miller tapped his fingers on the shoe he was holding. "But... guess this works. Didn't actually expect either of you to walk by so soon. A bit like Christmas morning, ain't it?"

"Jerks. You guys are pretty violent for check swindlers."

Miller looked at them both, looking from Tucker to Donut. "Maybe we are. But you drove us to it. And I ain't paid you back for Joannes." He cracked his knuckles. "And I'm gonna pay you to hell and back for the goddamn shit you did."

"Well, I'm actually surprised you took so long," Tucker muttered under his breath. "I keep telling you it was an accident."

"And maybe I'll claim that you getting beaten half to death was an accident, too." Miller glanced sideways at Donut. "The fruit, on the other hand... maybe just a quarter to death."

"Aw, that's not even fair. I didn't even get a chance to do anything," Donut whined. "Lemme go!"

"Someone's going to hear him," one of Miller's friends, the one holding Donut's left arm, muttered.

"Then shut him up, will you?"

"Got it!"

One of Miller's friends punched Donut square in the gut, driving all the breath out of him. Tucker inwardly winced as Donut gasped for breath. Miller turned back to Tucker and, similarly, punched him in the gut as well, knocking the breath out of Tucker so he couldn't even make any noise beyond very small groans of pain.

"Don't have much time. You guys... deal with the fruit. But... don't hurt him too badly. Stop if you hear something break." Miller cracked his knuckles again, and a smile appeared on his face. "You ain't getting that privilege, Tucker. Been looking way too forward to this to let you walk away with just bruises."

"Y-yeah?" Tucker rasped, still out of breath. "Great. Not like you can punch that hard, you wimpy check-swindling bitch."

He shouldn't have said that.

Miller smashed him in the stomach again, and this time he didn't stop after just one punch. The blows came fast and hard, and Tucker tried to breathe but couldn't because they just wouldn't let him take a breath—

Miller hit him again and something broke. Tucker had no idea what it was. Just that it hurt. It hurt more than anything he'd ever felt before except perhaps the one time he'd been shot. He made a strange, strangled hiss noise, which was the closest he could get to screaming with no breath, and he could see something red starting to stain his jacket, and oh god it hurt, oh god-

That was all he could focus on. It was just pain. White hot pain that got worse every time Miller smashed his fists into his chest. Everything else... the occasional blur of orange passing by the cell (and of course they didn't call the guards, who would try to help him?) and the occasional thuds and whimpers coming from where Miller's friends were beating up Donut... it barely registered at all, because it just... kept... hurting.

Everything was getting darker. The lack of air was making his head swim. And finally, Miller stopped. Tucker felt a hand grip the back of his collar as Miller tugged him in closer and spoke quietly. Tucker didn't look up. He didn't have the energy, and the only thing that was stopping him from hitting the floor was that Miller's friends were still holding his arms.

"This ain't gonna be the end of it, bastard. Far as I see it, this is just payback for the riot. You're gonna suffer. You talked Joannes into suicide. So we won't be even until you wish you were dead. Then maybe I'll consider us even."

That was the last thing Tucker heard before everything went dark.

* * *

"Can't find him. Weird," Church muttered. "And I can't see Dye-Job around, either." He stood on his toes to try and see around the yard better. "Can you see them, Caboose?"

Caboose shook his head. "No."

_Dammit, where the hell are they? Not in the cafeteria, not in their cells... where the fuck else do they go? _Church scratched his head, scowling. "I'm out of fucking ideas."

"Maybe they are in the library. Tucker is still not happy at Miller."

"Hm. Maybe, who knows." Church crossed his arms. "Wait. So Miller is out of the infirmary, then?"

"Oh. Yeah. I know because I tried to go and find another book with pretty pictures, and he got mad at me for knocking over another shelf." Caboose lowered his voice. "Miller is a very cranky man."

"Someone could have mentioned that earlier."

"Church!"

Church heard his name being shouted, and saw Tex walking towards him. Church's feeling of unease increased. Tex didn't approach him nowadays unless something was up.

"Tex? You seen Tucker anywhere?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Found Tucker and that Donut kid unconscious in the laundry closet. Wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

_Oh god, no._

"When the fuck was this? What happened to Tucker?" Church yelled.

"What happened to Donut?" Caboose asked, quieter but at almost the exact same moment Church had yelled.

"They're alive. For now."

Church felt like his stomach had vanished. "What do you mean, for now?"

Tex glanced away, looking uncomfortable. "Well, Tucker was in pretty bad shape. Doc said he didn't know how to get him to stop bleeding and that something on the inside had broken, so they sent him to the hospital. I thought you should know. You wouldn't know who did it, would you?"

_Miller. It had to be Miller. ...Goddammit, I'm gonna kill him for this._


	46. Chapter 44: Perjury

**Chapter Forty-Four: Perjury**

The first thing Donut noted when he woke up was that everything hurt. He felt like a puppy that had been fucked by a bulldozer. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, although his left eye was puffy and almost impossible to see out of. Nonetheless, he recognised the ceiling because he'd spent two months sleeping under it.

_Why am I in the infirmary?_

Donut sat up, although it took a lot of effort. He looked downwards, pulling his shirt up carefully to have a look underneath, since that was where it hurt most. The majority of his chest and stomach was covered in mottled bruises. He checked as much skin as he could without moving. The bruises were smattered all over him.

It took a few moments for Donut to remember why he was so battered. Once he remembered, he looked over at the other cots. All of them were empty.

_That... can't be good..._

"You really have the worst luck. Fourth visit... I'm really starting to worry about how long you'll last." Doc had been rummaging through the cupboards, and had only noticed Donut was awake when he heard Donut sit up.

"What happened?"

"South found you and Tucker in the storeroom they keep all the jumpsuits in. You don't seem that hurt, though. I'm keeping you in overnight just to make sure, and you'll probably have trouble moving for a while. Quite a nice array of colours, those bruises. Like a really painful rainbow."

"Rainbow? But they're missing several shades of orange," Donut muttered, staring down at his collection of bruises. "What happened to Tucker?"

Doc bit his lip nervously. "He's at the hospital. Very bad shape. If he survives, he won't be back for a while. Doctors over there said he had something called flail chest, collapsed lung, bunch of chest trauma... I mean, I didn't know what it was, I just knew he wasn't breathing right. That reminds me, are you having any problems breathing? Any particularly bad chest pain?"

Donut took a few deep breaths. It did hurt. But it didn't feel so bad that it made him want to stop breathing all together. "It's not that bad."

Doc nodded. "Good. Tell me if you do, by the sounds of things it sounds like you haven't broken anything... I mean, I can't be sure... I was considering sending you to the hospital, too, but I wasn't sure and they're kind of iffy taking inmates as it is, especially after that, uh, O'Malley incident... made me so much more thankful for kaleidoscopes... If nothing is broken in your case, I could probably let you out tomorrow. I'll take you off laundry duty for a while, but you should be free to wander around."

"Okay." _I guess Miller really did go easy on me..._ Donut glanced back at the empty cot. Where Tucker should have been. "How long was I out?"

"Not long. You were found about three hours ago. It's nearly dinnertime, you'll get your food once the medication has been delivered. It'd be up here now, but I didn't know if you'd be awake by then..."

Donut settled back down on the cot, staring up at the ceiling he knew far too well.

_Hope he's alright... even if I don't really like him._

* * *

"Medication's been delivered."

Doc turned around to see York standing at the door. "Any problems?"

"Well, not problems... per se..." York glanced at Donut. "If it's alright, can I talk to you out here?"

"It's fine. Donut will be fine by himself for a little bit. Don't start bleeding or die while I'm gone, okay?"

"Yeah."

Doc followed York into the corridor before continuing. "Is something wrong?"

York shrugged. "It's not a problem, really. But you said you wanted to know if O'Malley started acting weird... well, weirder. Anyway, he's not eating. Don't know how long it's been going on, neither of the Dakotas could give me a specific answer. But he hasn't eaten in at least a couple of days. Can't get an answer about why, because... well, he's too drugged to talk. Doesn't even put up a fight when I give him his meds. Well, he tried to bite off my finger, but he didn't have the energy. It didn't hurt, it just got my hands slimy. Really gross."

"It's not the first time people have gone off their food," Doc muttered, scratching his head. "Usually I just switch them back to regular medication. Or at least a lighter dosage. I don't really like sedatives. If I didn't want to use such a strong word, I'd say I hate them. I think it's unethical to keep inmates that drugged... But... uh..."

"You're scared of letting O'Malley off them?"

"Yeah... terrified." Doc shivered. "O'Malley's just too... too..."

"Insane? Stabby? Too knowledgeable about surgery?"

"Yeah... those things too..."

The violent tendencies didn't actually scare Doc, if only because O'Malley had never harmed him. Not physically, anyway, save for maybe a couple of bites at his fingers. What scared him was how strange O'Malley was. He was just beyond Doc's comprehension.

_Why would he ever enroll in medical school if he didn't want to help people? Why torture people? Why knock me out and then cover me in a blanket? Why follow me around constantly? ...Why kiss me?_

Without realising what he was doing, Doc wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Felt wrong. Like too much contact with O'Malley would make him like O'Malley.

_He just doesn't make sense. And everything he does terrifies me... it's not just one thing. It's not just because he's insane... it's not just anything, it's everything._

"Uh, you alright?" York asked.

"Huh?"

"Well, you said 'yeah, those things too,' and then you just kind of stared into space for about a minute while wiping your mouth. Eat something bad for lunch?"

"Oh, uh... no, I was just thinking..." Doc shook his head. "If he's not eating, and that's caused by the medication, I guess I have no choice but to put O'Malley on lighter meds, starting tomorrow. I should probably get back inside... I need to wait for any updates on Tucker's condition..."

"You ever find out who beat up those two?"

"Not yet. Haven't asked. I don't want to remind them of the trauma yet."

"Remind them?" York snorted. "If I was beat up that much, I think just the pain would remind me enough."

"Besides, they don't always tell the truth. Like how O'Malley wouldn't tell me the truth about who hit him... although... he did imply things..."

"Oh, uh... really?" York got visibly more uncomfortable. "You know, I should probably get back to the cafeteria, make sure all the inmates are back in their cells..."

"I still... I still think it was Wash. Are you sure—" Doc started.

"Sure! I'm sure. I'm very sure. I mean, we weren't even down there that night. We were... playing poker. I mean, Go Fish. The guards do that a lot. I think Sarge and Flowers have some sort of Go Fish rivalry going on..."

"What does this have to do with Go Fish?"

"Uh. I have to go." York backed away nervously, hurrying away from Doc lest he be questioned some more. Doc shook his head.

_If anything, that just makes me believe more that Wash had something to do with it... And I don't like such strong violence going on in the prison... But I don't know how to prove it. _

Doc shook his head before walking back in the infirmary. Thinking about that could wait. For now... he had to take care of patients.

* * *

"Don't you even think about it."

Church looked through his bars at Tex, who was standing outside his cell. They'd been locked in their cells for the night, but the lights were still on. Church climbed off his cot and rested against the bars.

"Think about what?"

"Don't think I didn't see your expression when I told you about Tucker. You were fucking pissed," Tex muttered, keeping her voice down so the inmates further down didn't hear her. Just a couple of cells away, Caboose had edged nearer to his bars and was attempting to listen, still holding onto the stuffed pigeon.

"Of course I'm fucking pissed. I know it was Miller, I fucking know it. Who else would?"

"Church? You realise you're a douchebag, right?" Tex told him bluntly. "And that Tucker is, as well? You two are hated by most of the prison population thanks to all those cons and blackmail you two pulled off. Not to mention your crimes."

"Yeah, so? I still know it was fucking Miller."

"Fine, let's say it's Miller. As soon as there's some proof of it, he'll get punished."

"Punished?" Church's eyes narrowed. "Punished how? A couple of weeks of solitary? Getting 'the log?' Getting stuck in prison a little longer so he has more time to hurt people? Big fucking deal!"

"You better not be thinking of killing him."

Church glared back at Tex, with a look that clearly said 'Oh, I'm more than fucking thinking about it.'

"You know, it's not too late for me to break my half of the deal, Church."

Church snorted. "Yeah? Sure, if you want to get charged with perjury. You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I? You know me better than that," Tex said coolly. "If you're so sure, why haven't you gone back to killing people before now?"

"Because I promised I wouldn't. But..." Church shook his head. "There's only so much I can fucking take."

"Really?" Tex leant in just a little more, as much as the bars would allow. "Would you be saying that if I told you I knew where your little brother was?"

Church's eyes widened slightly, but he tried to stay nonchalant. "You don't know shit. Besides. No reason he'd come back. No reason you'd go looking for him, either. You're bluffing."

Tex just raised an eyebrow.

Moment of silence, before Church said, "You're not bluffing, are you?"

"Not at all. Kill anyone, and I tell the truth. I'll tell them the truth about Eddie. And I'll tell them where to find him."

"You're bluffing. You have to be fucking bluffing," Church said desperately. "Why would he stay so close to the city... he's not that fucking stupid. He shouldn't even know I'm here!"

"Maybe he wants to find you. Maybe he wants to be locked up with you. I don't know. But he's still in the city. Do you want me to tell?"

"No. No, c'mon. Don't do that. Don't fucking do that." Church moved back to the bars, the hands he was using to grip them were white from how tightly he was clenching them. "Don't tell anyone about Eddie..."

"Then don't kill anyone. It's not that hard."

In the back of his head, he could almost hear Tucker say 'that's what she said.' Church stayed silent for a few long moments before letting go of the bars.

"Alright."

"No killing Miller?"

"...No. No killing Miller. Just... shut up about him, alright?"

Tex nodded. "Alright."

After Tex's footsteps had faded away, Church sat back on the cot and put his head in his hands.

_The fuck do I do now? God... why, Eddie? Why'd you have to come back to the city? You fucking idiot... _

"Church. Chuuuuuurch," Caboose whispered.

"Oh god... what?" Church snapped.

"Mrs. McCrabby will not let you kill Miller?"

"'Course she fucking won't. Why? Did you hear everything we were fucking saying?"

_Please say you didn't hear about Eddie, you don't have the sense to keep that shit quiet._

"No. I did not understand much else of what you and Mrs. McCrabby were saying. You were whispering, so it was very quiet. I just heard Miller's name a little." After a long pause. "Are you going to listen to Mrs. McCrabby?"

Church didn't answer for a long time. "Goddammit, I want to kill Miller. But I can't."

"Okay."

_Dammit... I'm sorry, Tucker. _


	47. Chapter 45: This Little Piggie

**Chapter Forty-Five: This Little Piggy**

"Where the fuck did my cigarettes go? Simmons, did you hide them again?" Grif grumbled, shuffling around his cell and looking around every possible surface for his pack of cigarettes.

"No." Simmons was sitting on Grif's floor, resting against the brick closest to the bars. He was turning the pages of a science fiction novel that he had already read several times. He was only reading it again because he had nothing else to do.

"Then where the fuck are they?"

"You know, this might seem like a crazy idea..." Simmons started. "But maybe you could go for a day without a cigarette. Honestly, where are you even getting them from? You don't have the fucking money, you haven't worked for weeks."

"Ehhh... Too much effort not to smoke."

"Of course. Dumbass."

"Up yours. Ah. Found them. They were under my pillow."

"You keep your fucking cigarettes under your pillow? The fuck were you thinking?"

"Why the fuck not? People always look in the footlocker." Grif pulled a cigarette out and started searching for a lighter. "I've lost my damn lighter."

Simmons paused in the middle of reading, looking up briefly. "It's lying in your footlocker, you put it there when you were looking for your cigarettes."

"Right, right. Thanks, man."

"Welcome. Dumbass." Simmons turned the page idly.

"Simon! Simon, can I ask you something? It is very important." Caboose had walked up to the cell and sat on the other side of the bars that were next to Simmons.

"This is going to be a dumb question, isn't it? It better not be you asking what another swear word Church shouted means. I'm not explaining what a 'festering sack of whore' is again," Simmons sighed.

"No. It is not about that, this time." Caboose lowered his voice to a very obvious whisper. "If Mrs. McCrabby says that Church cannot kill someone... what does that mean?"

"That he can't kill people? Duh," Grif grumbled.

"No. I mean... does that count people Church is best friends with? Or do bestest buddies still count?"

"I'd say they would count," Simmons said.

"Aw. Okay. Then is there a way I can make Miller stop causing problems, then?"

Simmons turned the page again before answering. "That depends... Does this have anything to do with Donut being hurt?"

"Yes."

Normally, Simmons would encourage the notion that hurting people is bad. But Miller had hurt Donut. That changed things.

"Well, in that case... I would say if Mrs. McCrabby... you mean Tex, right?"

"Yes."

"If Tex told Church not to kill anyone—"

"He is so whipped," Grif snickered.

"Grif, not now! Anyway, it wouldn't necessarily forbid Church—or anyone associated with Church—from just hurting that person very badly. In theory."

"In theory?" Caboose repeated, looking mildly confused.

"Well, it's all hypothetical, of course," Simmons said hurredly. "It's not like I'm telling you to hurt Miller or anything. I'm just saying, in theory... if you were to do so, it wouldn't break any of Tex's rules."

"I can help! Yay!" Caboose whispered loudly. "Thank you, Simon!"

"Simmons. It's Simmons. You were getting my name right a few days ago, how do you—" Simmons was cut off by Church shouting a few cells away. Caboose frowned and climbed to his feet, moving towards Church's voice. Simmons sighed and looked at Grif. Grif grinned at him.

"Is 'in theory' just a code for 'yes, but don't tell anyone I said that?' You gonna start ending sentences with that?" Grif mimicked Simmons' voice, although he made it unnecessarily high and girly. "'Oh, Grif, please fuck me until the sun rises; I'll go all night! In theory!'"

"Shut up, Grif!"

* * *

Walking was painful and slow, but at least it was possible to walk without stopping every few meters. Donut didn't expect any better. He still felt like crap, even though Doc had let him out of the infirmary. He'd seen in the mirror how battered he looked. The worst of the bruising was hidden by his jacket, but there was still bruises on his wrists, where Miller's friends had gotten a good grip on him, and his face was clearly battered, including a large bruise on the right side of his face that was a spectacular purple colour, as well as one of his eyes being puffy and surrounded by yellow.

Donut edged towards his cell, making sure to stay away from Miller's cell, lest Miller decide that Donut hadn't been punished enough. Step by tiny step. Donut had left the infirmary just after lunch, but it was taking him roughly half an hour just to walk back to the cells. As Donut got closer, he could hear the very familiar sound of Grif and Simmons arguing. Donut grinned to himself as he edged closer. Even the arguing was better than hearing next to no conversation in the infirmary.

As he edged into sight, he saw Caboose sitting outside Grif's cell. He looked like he was talking to someone through the bars, Donut didn't know whether it was Grif or Simmons. Weird. Caboose didn't usually go out of his way to talk to them... usually only when he and Grif were trading food.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

Donut had been inching his way past Church's cell when he heard that. Church climbed off his cot and took a few steps towards Donut, staring at him.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he repeated. "You're fine enough to leave? What the fuck? How come you're not in hospital like Tucker?"

"Uh. I think Miller went easy on me," Donut muttered.

"Did you tell them it was Miller?"

"No."

"What? Why the fuck not?"

"Because I don't want to be labeled a snitch and I don't want Miller coming after me again, alright? This hurt!" Donut said defensively.

"Ugh! Motherfucking idiot!" Church kicked the wall angrily, although the only succeeded in hurting his own foot. "Goddammit!"

"Man, you're really pissed, aren't you?" Donut tilted his head. "This is about Tucker, isn't it?"

"Why the fuck aren't you as hurt as he is? If he's gotta suffer through this shit-"

"I'm sure he'll be fine... I mean, Miller said he didn't want Tucker to die until he'd suffered enough to wish he was dead... and you spent ages in the infirmary when O'Malley stabbed you..."

"That's not the fucking same thing! O'Malley is a trained surgeon! If he just wants someone to suffer a lot, he's a lot more likely to succeed in not killing them! He knows which places to avoid stabbing, he fucking knows his stuff." Church grabbed Donut's shoulders and shook him angrily. "Miller just went in and smashed fucking everything, didn't he? Because he doesn't know shit! It's not the same fucking thing, goddammit!"

"Please stop shaking me!" Donut yelped.

Church did stop shaking Donut, but he didn't let go immediately. He looked like he hadn't slept, and combined with the anger... he looked deranged. After a few seconds of silence, Church let go of Donut.

"Dammit. I can't... fucking do shit..." Church whispered. "I can't do anything... Tucker could be dying and I can't do anything about it. Do you know what that fucking feels like? Because it feels like fucking shit!"

Donut hadn't moved since Church had stopped shaking him.

"I do know what that feels like," Donut murmured. Church shook his head and turned away from Donut.

"Just fuck off, would you? Looking at you makes me want to kill something... and I can't even do that."

Donut backed out of the cell as fast as he could, which was still at a snail-like pace. Which was a good thing in a way, because if he'd been moving at normal speed he probably would have run straight into Caboose, who had moved from outside Grif's cell and was instead hiding just out of sight of Church's cell.

Donut looked up at Caboose, but quickly looked down and tried to shuffle past him. He didn't think he could stand Caboose's puppy eyes today. But Caboose stopped him and carefully tilted Donut's face up. Donut was a little scared that Caboose would break his jaw in the process, given his usual strength, but he was being unusually gentle that day.

Caboose looked down at Donut, his eyes lingering on the obvious bruises patterning Donut's face. Then he looked at Church, who had started pacing his cell while muttering under his breath. Then he looked back at Donut for a few more moments and nodded, letting go of Donut as he did so.

"Okay," he said, before passing by Donut. Donut frowned as he heard Caboose's footsteps recede.

_Okay? Okay what?_

Donut was quickly distracted from wondering. Instead he ended up arguing with Grif and Simmons over which superhero would win in a fight, a debate that had apparently not reached a conclusion while Donut was gone.

* * *

Miller hummed lightly to himself, leaving the library and heading back to his cell. Yesterday's beatdown had put him in a very good mood. Tucker was long overdue for being broken, it'd been at least six months since Joannes died. It'd been too long a wait, but it had felt great.

_If you're up there, Joannes, I hope you enjoyed that. Because there's more coming if Tucker lives through this first one._

Miller hadn't expected none of the guards to approach him about it yet, though. He was sure the fruity guy would have told. Then again, maybe he was scared to... Made sense. And if Tucker survived... well, even if Tucker did, there was always the chance the guards wouldn't believe him. Tucker was such a well-known con by now. Of course, if both Tucker and Donut insisted on it, there was no way Miller would be getting out of a punishment. But it was worth it. Even extra time in prison was worth that.

Miller entered his cell and rummaged through the footlocker for one of the porn magazines he'd found in a library book. Inmates persisted in hiding them inside books and forgetting to remove them.

As he rifled through his footlocker, he heard footsteps behind him. He didn't pay any attention to them as he assumed it was just an inmate passing by. It was only when Miller stood up, holding the magazine in his hands, that he turned around and saw Caboose standing right behind him.

"What the fu-"

Caboose reached out and grasped Miller's shoulders, before kneeing him hard in the gut. As Miller doubled over, Caboose grabbed him by the neck and pulled him back up again, staring him in the face.

Usually when Miller saw him, he had a friendly, slightly vacant expression. Scary thing was, his expression was still friendly. But there was something about that smile that reminded Miller a little of the red-haired man that'd talked to him the day of the riot.

"Please do not move or make any loud noise. Or I will have to break your neck," Caboose whispered quietly. Miller knew he wasn't lying. He'd seen Phil's death, which had been a lot more unpleasant than a simple neck snap. Miller nodded very slightly. Caboose tugged him towards the footlocker, bent down and rummaged through the footlocker that Miller hadn't gotten a chance to shut. After a few moments, Caboose located a pair of Miller's socks.

"If you are quiet, this will not go in your mouth. Which will be good for you because socks smell funny and probably taste icky." Caboose placed the socks on the stone floor and then sighed, in a similar way to that of a disappointed grade school teacher. "You have not been a very nice man."

* * *

"This is about fucking Tucker and that girly fruit, isn't it?" Miller growled. "They had it coming to them."

_Well, that is silly. Why would I be hurting him about fruit? And I do not care about Tucker. Tucker is stupid._

"I said stop talking," Caboose said quietly. He tightened his hand around Miller's neck just a little bit. Had to be careful. Had to make sure he didn't fall down, because then Tex would be angry, which would also make Church angry. "You did very bad things. You hurt Donut. And you made Church very, very upset."

"Dammit. If you kill me, the others will get you," Miller snarled back. He was still staying as quiet as he could, though. He was a smart man.

"Nope. People cannot hurt me," Caboose replied. "Except O'Malley, but he will not care if I kill you. I think he would like it. He likes mean things. But that does not matter, because I am not going to kill you. Church said no."

"Then what the hell are you doing?"

"Teaching you why you should not do those bad things anymore." Caboose shoved Miller down so he was flat on the ground, and planted a knee in his back. It reminded him of when he was a little kid picking on other children in elementary school. Although were this school bullying, the initial hitting would be followed by a swirlie. Miller would not be that lucky.

Caboose twisted Miller's left arm behind his back, so that he had a clear view of the fingers. He'd seen people do this in the movies, although he couldn't remember any of the titles. But afterwards, they didn't do any bad things. Although that might have been because either they died or the movie ended...

Miller was struggling a little, but he couldn't move much. However, he decided to start yelling some very rude words that Caboose's mother had taught him never to say.

"If Mama was here, she would wash your mouth out with soap," Caboose said. He picked up the rolled-up socks. "I do not have soap, but I still have these socks. Can you open your mouth?"

"Go to he—mmph!"

"Thank you."

Still holding Miller's left arm behind his back, Caboose grasped the little finger tightly.

"In the movies they would say something clever now. But I did not think of anything, so..." Caboose shrugged. And then he twisted Miller's little finger.

Snap.

The socks couldn't quite block out Miller's scream of pain, even if it was reduced to a muffled groan. However, as Caboose grasped the second finger he heard someone approach the cell.

"What's going on, Mil—the fuck?"

Caboose looked away from Miller's hand towards the inmate who had approached the cell. One of Miller's friends, although Caboose did not know his name.

"Get off him!"

Caboose shook his head. "I am not done! And if you do not go, I will have to do this—" The sentence was punctuated by another crack and Miller's muffled noises of pain,"—to you as well. And I do not want to."

The inmate stood in the doorway, looking torn between running and trying to help. But another crack, when Caboose broke the third finger, decided it for him.

"I... I, uh... just remembered that I have... something to do," the inmate muttered, backing away quickly. Caboose sighed and turned back to Miller's hand.

"In the movies it was one finger a person..." Caboose mumbled. "But Church is worth more than a finger. ...Donut, too. A hand a person would be better. And you have two hands! You are lucky I do not care about Tucker, or else you would need to grow another hand."

Minutes ticked by, punctuated only by cracks and short, muffled screams. Every time Caboose heard a crack, he got a strange swooping sensation in his stomach. It wasn't a bad feeling, but it was followed by guilt because it reminded Caboose of when he used to help O' could almost hear O'Malley muttering in his ear.

_Do you really want to stop at just the fingers, Caboose? _

The strange feeling in his stomach always happened when he hurt people, except for when he'd broken Donut's leg. That had just been sad.

It took a little while to break Miller's last finger, which was the thumb on his right hand. But it broke. Ten mangled fingers, bloody and twisted like plasticine. A very painful lesson, just like being spanked as a little kid.

Caboose let go of Miller's right hand and removed his knee from Miller's back, instead pushing him onto his back so he could see Miller's face. Miller was breathing very heavily and quickly through his nose, and his face had gone chalk white. He wasn't making an attempt to escape anymore, especially since he couldn't put weight on his hands and was thus going to have a lot of difficulty getting up, but he was holding his broken fingers close, away from Caboose just in case he tried breaking them even more.

_You could hurt him more. It'd be okay, because Miller is a bad man. It's okay to hurt bad people, Mikey._

Caboose shut out the O'Malley-esque voice in the back of his head. Instead, he bent down and stared at Miller again. He was smiling a little. Because Miller had upset Church and hurt Donut, and now he was hurt because Caboose didn't like it when people were mean to his friends.

"I am going to stop now. But you are going to do some things. You are going to go see the nice doctor. You are going to say that you caught your hands in a very heavy door. If you are a tattle-tale, I will not be as nice next time."

"Mmph mmnnn!"

"You will never hurt Donut again. And since hurting Tucker made Church upset, then I guess you should not do that either. You will stay away from them. If you do hurt them again... it will make me angry. And if I am angry, you will not just fall over."

He was no longer smiling. He was putting on his most serious of faces. He leaned in a little more, his eyes boring into Miller's.

"Do you understand? I. Will. Kill. You."

"Mmpher!"

"Nod or shake your head."

Miller didn't move for a long period of time before slowly nodding. Caboose smiled again and quickly left Miller's cell before a guard came around.

_Church will be very, very happy with me. And then we will be even better friends! And maybe... maybe Donut will be happy too. Even if I am still not happy with him._

* * *

Doc dropped various pills into different plastic cups. He knew a lot of the medication doses off by heart, especially for the more troublesome patients. Still, he had to consult the list of medication regularly, just in case he made mistakes. He had messed up medication before... it had resulted in death or at least horrible sickness on occasion.

Doc reached for O'Malley's cup and dropped some pills into it. Then he realised he had dropped the sedatives inside, instead. He'd almost given O'Malley them again that morning, but had realised it at the last moment. He'd nearly done it again.

He disliked sedatives for the purposes of control, but he didn't want to stop delivering them. He didn't want O'Malley running around crazily... especially not anywhere near him.

Doc frowned for a few moments before putting the sedatives away and dropping O'Malley's regular medication in the cup. Well, it wasn't quite his regular medication... it wouldn't keep O'Malley a stoned vegetable, but he hopefully wouldn't be as haywire as he had been in the past.

Doc hoped, anyway. His medical skills being what they were, Doc could never be sure. Even when he just declared that someone had a cold.

Even so, when Miller pushed open the door using his foot, Doc didn't have to look at Miller's horribly mutilated fingers for long to realise what had happened and make a diagnosis.

"Someone broke all your fingers?"

Miller's hands were shaking, his face was pale, and his mouth was drawn tight, like he was attempting not to let any sound of pain come out.

"I... caught them in a goddamn door."

"It must have been a pretty heavy door to do that."


	48. Chapter 46: Distracted

**Chapter Forty-Six: Distracted**

"Church! Church, are you still in there?" Caboose bounced into Church's cell. By this time, Church had stopped pacing his cell and was now attempting to sleep. Of course, Caboose's loud, cheerful voice both ruined that and made Church even angrier, if that was possible.

"Goddammit, what the fuck do you want now?"

Caboose lowered his voice to an obvious whisper. "I... have solved your problem."

"The fuck are you talking about? Seriously?"

"Miller. You were sad and angry because of things he did. So I fixed him! And now you will be happy again!" Caboose smiled brightly at Church, far too reminiscent of a puppy who has just brought in a dead animal as a present, expecting to be praised. Which, in Caboose's case, was often not that far of a stretch.

"Fixed... huh?" Church was still sleepy, and the implications were taking a while to catch up. He sat up on his cot, still slightly out of it. "Wait. Fixed... Oh shit, you didn't..."

"Did not what?"

"Caboose, if you goddamn did what I think you're fucking implying... I'm going to hurt you."

"Uhhhh..."

Church didn't know if Caboose wasn't answering because he realised Church was angry at him, or because he had forgotten what the word 'implying' meant. Either way, it was just increasing Church's foul mood.

"If you killed Miller, Tex is gonna be fucking pissed! We went through this fucking conversation after the Phil thing!"

"Oh! No, no, no." Caboose waved his hands distractedly. "No. I did not kill Miller. I just fixed him. He will not hurt Donut anymore, and since Tucker being hurt makes you sad, he will not do that either. We even shook hands on it. Sort of. Hands were... very, very involved."

"Wha-"

"But if he does more bad things, I have to kill him. Because I told him I would, and it is good to keep promises."

Church groaned and put a hand to his forehead. "Seriously. What'd you do?"

"I already told you."

"Then put it in plain words!"

"Uhm. Your voice is getting very loud. It is making my toes hurt and I am scared that you are going to start shaking people again."

"Church! You in there, cockbite?" Tex appeared in front of Church's cell. To say she looked furious would have been an understatement. "You're really pushing this, aren't you? Can't believe you'd chance your brother's freedom on this shit..."

Church motioned for her to shut up, behind Caboose's back. Tex caught the gesture and stopped talking. Caboose was frowning and scratching his head.

"I thought Church said his brother was-"

"Uh. Tex didn't mean that kind of brother," Church cut in. "She meant the black kind of brother. You know, like... 'ma brutha.'"

"Oh. Okay."

Tex rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh. You're changing the subject. I knew you'd try something with Miller."

"I haven't even left my cell today for anything but working the fucking laundry!" Church protested. "I don't even know what the fuck happened."

"If you haven't been near him..." Tex lifted her hands and wiggled the fingers. "Then explain why all his fingers are mutilated to the point that they look like twisted, purple pieces of plasticine."

_Well... that could be worse, but... damn. Caboose, you crazy bastard._

"He caught his hands in a door," Caboose said immediately.

Tex turned to Caboose, glaring at him suspiciously. Behind her, Church mimed a strangling motion and pointed at Caboose. Caboose only reacted to Church's motion, and even then he only shifted nervously.

"Have you ever gotten all ten fingers caught in a door? Do you think I'd really believe that?" Tex asked him.

"Yes. It is true." There was about ten seconds of silence. "Please stop staring at me."

"As much as that does sound like a retarded excuse..." Church started. _Damn you, Caboose. Damn your obvious lies._ "Maybe... it's true? Look, I didn't do shit. And I didn't tell anyone to do shit. You really think I'd risk... you know... just to break some asshole's fingers?"

_You know I wouldn't, Tex. Not after all the shit that happened._

Tex crossed her arms, scowling. "Then explain what happened."

"Do not say anything. She will call a truck runner," Caboose stage-whispered.

"What the hell is a truck runner?"

Tex looked between Church and Caboose, then gestured at her thumb at Caboose while looking at Church. "Was it Caboose?"

Church did not say anything outloud, but he attempted to communicate with eye movements that the answer was yes. He didn't want to say it outloud... Betraying Caboose's trust was a very risky business. Communicating with eye movements was also tough, but it was not as hazardous to one's health.

Tex somehow received the message.

"Caboose, you're going to solitary."

"What? That is not fair! You said that Church could not kill Miller, you said nothing about hurting. I did not break any rules. It is Miller's fault! It was an accident, we were shaking hands on something! He caught them in a door!" Caboose babbled. "I did not do anything. Nothing. Nothing at all. We were shaking hands."

"Great, he's stuck in a fucking loop," Church muttered. "Caboose!"

"Accident!" Caboose nearly screamed, before turning around and running out of the cell and down the corridor. Tex sighed.

"Wash! Catch him!" she called out. Church couldn't see Caboose or Wash from where he was sitting, but just a moment after Tex had shouted he heard a crash.

"Ow, my face," he heard Caboose groan.

"Wash must be a fucking ninja or something," Church muttered. Tex shrugged before turning back to Church.

"Okay. I'll believe you when you say you had nothing to do with it this time. But only because I don't want to be charged... You kill anyone, you hurt anyone..."

"I know, I know. I fucking get it already."

Tex surveyed Church closely. Her frown faded just a little, replaced with concern. "You look awful."

"Yeah, I... uh, I didn't sleep that well..." Church shrugged. "No big deal, just... you know how it goes."

Tex shook her head. "I do know how it goes, and it better not go that way. You've been a bitch to keep alive for ten years, so throw that away and I'll drag you back from Hell and kill you again. "

"You act like I'm on a perpetual suicide watch. That was one time," Church muttered. As Tex turned to leave, he added, "How come you can break the rules and I can't, huh?"

Tex froze very momentarily. "What are you talking about?"

"Tucker told me. He asked you to send Donut down to the storage room, so that Caboose could break his leg. Back when I was in the infirmary. You helped him get Donut, and Donut hadn't even stabbed me. How is that different from me wanting to get revenge on Miller for hurting Tucker?"

Tex was silent for a few moments, her back still to Church.

"I guess you got me there... But that wasn't killing."

"Neither was this Miller thing."

"But in regards to why you can't break the rules and I can... I'm a guard. The rules were made for the inmates. Not for us."

"That's harsh. What about Wyoming?"

"Well, obviously breaking as many rules as he did is a different matter. He's in here for a reason."

* * *

"It's just one more inmate! ...I know it's just broken fingers, but... He's not even a murderer, he was charged with fraud or something, that's all... Please? Okay, sorry." Doc tossed the phone back on the receiver and turned back to Miller. "They say they can't admit you based on severity. I'll try calling an urgent care center but I can't promise anything... for some reason they don't like taking felons... I'm trying to get you somewhere, I don't know how to set broken fingers... How do they feel?"

Miller's eye twitched as he raised his hands. The fingers were all swollen and purple. He didn't say anything.

"Okay, that was a silly question... I'm sorry." Doc started dialing the number for an urgent care center. "You know, I didn't even think we had doors that heavy! Did you get them in one of the cell doors when they were closing? No, that's silly, they don't close until nighttime..."

Miller still wasn't talking, but the twitching just increased.

"Did you try to escape? That gate that opens to let people in and out is really heavy... got my foot stuck in it once... couldn't walk for ages... and then O'Malley wouldn't stay still for his medication and I couldn't run after him and..."

_Stop talking about O'Malley. Why does every anecdote you tell end up with something about O'Malley?_

Maybe just because O'Malley was such a live wire, and most of Doc's more vivid on-the-job memories involved him. A lot of inmates were trouble, especially the ones that required medication and thus required Doc to associate with them regularly. But they could usually be quieted with some attention from the guards, and they didn't usually attempt to cause trouble after they'd been beaten once. Doc didn't like the regular violence, they always disrupted the peaceful atmosphere he'd attempted to create in the infirmary. Even the duck curtains didn't help. But at least the inmates usually stopped the violence after the first couple of times.

O'Malley didn't stop. And when he wasn't violent... It was strange. He'd listened to Doc. Actually asked him what was troubling him. He'd been fidgety when he listened, and he always wore that manic grin, but... Doc had talked. He'd whined and complained, because he so rarely had the chance. No-one outside of the prison listened to him, after all... Then he'd complained about some of the inmates who gave him mild trouble... just as an aside. And those inmates started dropping like flies... Doc had only realised the pattern when he'd complained about Church referring to him as a pussyfest, and Church had appeared in the infirmary not long afterwards with multiple stab wounds.

That's how it went. And when Doc stopped confiding in the crazy psychopath that for some reason had used Doc as some strange method of choosing victims... O'Malley just got worse. He just kept getting worse. And no matter how hard Doc tried, he couldn't stop thinking about him. Couldn't stop panicking about whatever O'Malley was up to. Even when O'Malley had been on the sedatives, Doc couldn't stop worrying. He worried less, that was definite. But only just enough so that he could actually get some sleep...

The prison was pretty much all Doc had in life, as much as he hated to admit it. He spent his life around convicted felons. But none of them had ever latched onto him and declared that he was their property, as O'Malley had done. Done while drugged, but done nonetheless. It almost made Doc consider giving up his job, but... his chances of getting a job anywhere else were slim. The only reason he had a job at all was because Sarge was insane enough to hire him. Besides, he did like helping people.

He could try passing off the job of giving medication to the guards, as he normally did. But once O'Malley was out of solitary, there was no telling what would happen. And there was some sort of law that said O'Malley could only be locked up there for so long...

Doc had been distracted with his chain of O'Malley-ish thoughts... he hadn't been able to argue for Miller being transferred to an urgent care center very well... not that he would have, anyway. Doc was not good at arguing, even just opposing the view of someone else made him feel guilty.

"Sorry, Miller. I might have to try fixing your fingers. I think I know enough to not make it worse..." Doc said hopefully. "I'm not really sure, it might be better for me to just tape them together and hope for the best. If you want, I could get a new hanging kitty poster in here... that might cheer you up. I used to have one, but it had a blue background and Sarge accused me of supporting 'the other team.' He says the blue background counts, even if it was just a picture of the sky."

Miller didn't look comforted by the thought of Doc trying to fix his fingers. But Doc didn't notice the discomfit. His thoughts were stuck on the psychopath currently sitting in a solitary cell.


	49. Chapter 47: Personal Space

**Chapter Forty-Seven: Personal Space**

Church was no stranger to shit going wrong. He'd spent most of his life having shit go wrong. But there was a difference between all those times and this time. First off, there was nothing he could do to help Tucker. And second, being in a prison... there was nothing he could do to distract himself from the fact.

Church wanted to stop thinking about it for even just five minutes... but he couldn't. What else was going to pull his attention away? The slightly different shade of yellow that the macaroni was today? Walking around the yard? Joining in Grif and Simmons' constant debate on superheroes? None of it was distracting enough.

Even trying to talk to Caboose or doing something futile like teaching him how to read (which Church had attempted when he was very bored once, and been reduced to a screaming mess within three minutes) wasn't distracting enough. Even if the urge to punch something in the face occasionally took his attention for all of six seconds. But it wouldn't have mattered either way, since Caboose was still in solitary.

Church had attempted to pester Doc for information, but even Doc had gotten annoyed by Church's constant visits.

"Church, when I hear about any changes I'll tell you. You don't have to come up here every half an hour. No offence, but you're being a little bit annoying. And I'm already on edge as it is..."

Doc had seemed nervous about something, although Church didn't see anything that Doc should have been nervous about. It might have had something to do with Doc's failure to fix Miller's fingers himself. Doc had eventually taped all the fingers together and sent Miller on his way. The only joy Church was getting at the moment was watching Miller trying to eat and pick up things with such crippled hands. That didn't take Church's mind off... things... but it did make him marginally more cheerful.

Now Church had returned to trying to sleep his way through the hours... that hadn't worked. Because Tucker still managed to cram his way into Church's mind, even when he was sleeping. Even when he was dreaming. And the dreams were never good.

For the tenth time in a week, Church woke up with a start. And it took him several long moments to realise that things were better than they had been in the dream and even longer to make his hands stop shaking. Church could remember the dream, clear as anything...

Tucker had been there... of course he had. But it hadn't been Tucker like when Church last saw him, with his orange jumpsuit and shit-eating grin. It had been Tucker wearing a hospital gown and an oxygen mask. Tucker had been blue and cold, which was strange considering how warm and brown Tucker's skin was... And his eyes...his eyes had been hollow and dead-looking.

Everything around Church and Tucker had been dark. Church wasn't sure where the light had been coming from, but it only went a couple of feet around them. But then Tucker had stepped out of the light and started to walk away, and Church had gotten the horrible, overwhelming feeling that if Tucker got out of sight that he wouldn't be coming back. That he'd be gone for good.

Church had grabbed Tucker's arm, but had quickly let go because Tucker's arm had been cold... freezing cold. Cold like no living person should be. Church had tried to run after Tucker, but then Caboose had suddenly been there and had grabbed the back of his shirt, insisting that Tucker had to go to the hot place because he was a bad man and that Church wasn't allowed to follow... And Church had tried to pull free, but he couldn't... couldn't do anything... And Tucker had left, and it'd been too late...

It was the hollow, dead eyes and how cold Tucker had felt that really stuck with Church. Especially those eyes. Church had seen those eyes on people before, not all of them dead in the literal sense of the word. He'd seen them so many times it was almost lost on him by now. On inmates that had died in their cells. On Caboose when he'd first arrived in prison. On himself, when he stared in the mirror during his darker years.

But he'd never seen it on Tucker. Tucker had always been lively. Always enjoying life for what it was worth even when he was stuck in a cement box. To see Tucker's eyes looking like they belonged to a corpse... scared the shit out of Church.

Church shook his head to try and clear his mind. But he couldn't.

_Goddamn it, Tucker. I hate you so much right now. When you get out of there... I'm gonna strangle you. If you do. No, don't think 'if.' Don't fucking think 'if.' When._

Church scowled at the ceiling.

_Okay... just focus your hate on the ceiling... that'll fill in some time... Goddamn ceiling._

"You were talking in your sleep."

Church sat up and glared at Grif, who was standing outside his cell holding a plastic bag. "Yeah, so what? Fuck off, will you?"

"Eh, maybe later." Grif held up the plastic bag. "I'm just looking for a drinking buddy. Simmons won't drink with me because he doesn't want to kill his liver, and he wouldn't let Donut drink with me because Donut's still underage... Want some pruno?"

Church continued glaring for a moment, before shrugging. "Fine. I need to get really drunk, anyway..."

* * *

For once, Doc wasn't caught by surprise. He'd known O'Malley was leaving solitary, and as a result had been determined not to keep his back to the door. This had resulted in over three hours of walking sideways so as to always keep the door in sight, and moving tables so he could sort out pills without turning his back. When O'Malley did finally push the door open Doc had been sitting down, working on paperwork to explain why Miller's fingers probably weren't going to heal right and debating whether it was worth ignoring his ethics and lying that it had been someone else's fault that Miller's fingers were in even worse condition than when he'd first stumbled into the infirmary.

Naturally, Doc's response to O'Malley had been to edge away and try to hide behind the cot. Smoothness was not a trait of Doc's. O'Malley grinned and pushed the door shut with his foot, then reached back and locked it.

"Uh... please unlock the door," Doc squeaked, staring over the cot.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't think clearly enough to process your request. Heavy medication does that," O'Malley laughed, stepping closer. "But in all seriousness, Doc... I'm not happy with you. You drugged me heavily for a month. Maybe more, I lost track... And even now... I believe this is stronger medication, because I measure how drugged I am by how much I can remember of my medical knowledge... and at the moment, I can't remember much beyond the bare essentials. This must be what it feels like to be you."

"That's mean," Doc mumbled.

"It is. Did you really expect anything different?"

That grin was a little more drugged than Doc was used to seeing, but it was much closer to O'Malley's usual psychotic smiles. Much closer than anything Doc had seen for months. As O'Malley got closer, Doc noticed other differences... O'Malley was thinner, his hair had gotten longer and messier... he looked crazier than ever.

"No."

O'Malley stepped even closer. Doc attempted to edge further away, but he was soon up against the wall. Doc's gaze darted to the side. He wasn't far from the phone, which he'd been dragging around the infirmary just in case word came from the hospital. Maybe if he could just reach out and pick up the phone... maybe he could call help, and they would take O'Malley away...

O'Malley's grin stretched wider, as he came to a halt on the other side of the cot. "You kept me drugged when I didn't need to be. I never need medication, but at that moment... I was locked inside solitary, Doc. A box. What harm was I going to do in a box? Why did I need to be drugged to the point that I couldn't remember my own name?"

Doc didn't answer, he just stayed as flat against the wall as possible and hoped he'd somehow gain the ability to just phase through walls.

"You don't even have an answer. Not a legitimate one. You just drug me because you're scared. Even after I was so nice to you..."

"Why were you?" Doc asked, trying to stop his voice from shaking. It was a futile effort. "Why did you cover me with a blanket? Why did you listen to me whine? Why... Why did you choose me to terrorize? Of all the people in this prison... why me?"

O'Malley's grin faded, replaced with a thoughtful frown. "Why you? Because... because..." O'Malley waved his hand. "I can't say. It's too..."

Doc blinked.

_Is he... actually showing embarrassment?_

"You can say," Doc mumbled. O'Malley sighed and turned away.

"No. I can't, because you'll laugh. Or scream. That's how things go whenever... whenever I get close to someone."

_Is he... saying what I think he's saying? Opening up? Showing a human emotion that isn't based on rage or sadism?_

Doc didn't know what to do. But he felt like he had to try and be comforting. O'Malley was finally showing some sort of human emotion... Doc climbed back over the cot, reaching out to... pat O'Malley on the shoulder or something along those lines.

_Maybe... if I show him that I won't laugh at him for acting human... maybe he'll stop acting as psychotic... he just needs to stop repressing the good parts of his feelings._

But as Doc's fingertips brushed O'Malley's back, O'Malley turned and rammed Doc in the stomach with his elbow. A few seconds later O'Malley had shoved Doc against the wall. Manic grin back in place.

"You foolish fool!" O'Malley laughed. "Did you actually believe that? You really caught that hook, line and sinker. You actually believed I could turn into someone who cares. I have to say, your folly amazes me. It truly, truly does."

"You... you jerk..."

"Oh, that's the understatement of the century, I'm sure." O'Malley had a firm grip on Doc's arms, and even though he was noticeably thinner he was still stronger than Doc. "Do you want to know the real reasons, my little plaything? It's not any meaningful reason like you might have thought. You're just more... fun."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're fun. You're fun because you're strange." As O'Malley continued to talk, one of his hands let go of Doc's arm. Instead, the fingers started tracing Doc's collarbone. Doc quivered, still trying to will himself to phase through the wall. "The way you behave is incredibly amusing. There's really nothing else to it. You're just a strange, neurotic pacifist who is fun to observe."

Doc flinched as O'Malley's fingers stopped tracing his collarbone and moved up his neck, moved up to stroking his face.

"That... that doesn't make sense," Doc squeaked. "You're... you're..."

_You're the strange one. That's why I'm afraid of you. I'm not the strange one here..._

"I know. I'm the insane one. But there's so much about you that's strange... maybe one day I'll give you a full list. I don't want to right now... There are some things I could tell you that would probably break your spirit," O'Malley chuckled. "And while I'd love to see you broken... I've got so many more years of fun before I'm bored enough to destroy you completely."

Doc's next sentence was meant to be something coherent. Perhaps asking for O'Malley to move away and to stop stroking his face, because it was very distracting... or just asking for O'Malley to make more sense, because Doc still didn't understand what O'Malley meant by him being strange. But he never got a chance to speak because suddenly O'Malley's lips were on his.

It was not a good kiss. It lasted far too long and it was very painful, especially since there was some teeth clashing involved. And Doc couldn't even try to move away because O'Malley had him pressed so hard into the wall that Doc was sure he would somehow leave an imprint in the wallpaper. O'Malley grinned into the forceful, one-sided kiss before pulling back a little. His face was still only inches away. That psychotic grin wider than ever.

"Sometimes actions cause a better reaction than words. Don't they, Doc?" O'Malley purred. He rocked forward just a bit, and Doc felt something hard grind against him.

He'd never felt more terrified.

"No, no, no, no! Not that, please not—" Doc tried to squirm away, but he couldn't. Even now, he was still afraid to try anything but half-hearted wriggling around.

"Ohhh, Doc. Do you think I'm just one of the boorish gorilla types who bend men over in the shower without stopping to savour the experience?" O'Malley smiled wider and rocked forward again. Doc let out a small whine, shaking his head and pressing back against the wall to try and put space between them. "No, no, no. There's too many years ahead of us. And I have no interest in just sticking you with no lead-up. Mind you, if I felt like it... I could take you right now. But I don't want to."

O'Malley let go of him and took a step back. Doc's legs didn't want to hold him, and he slid to the floor, babbling incomprehensibly.

"But... what... guh... huh..."

O'Malley let out a small laugh. "Such an overreaction to such a small thing." He leaned forward and brushed his hand against Doc's cheek, smiling wider when Doc flinched and edged back. "I have no interest in carnal pleasures, Doc. Only the reactions. And I have a lifetime to savor every little emotion that goes through you."

He took a few steps backwards towards the door, still smiling that cheshire grin.

"What would you say if you were in some sort of romantic relationship, Doc? You seem like such a nice man." O'Malley's voice was heavily layered with sarcasm. "I'm sure you don't put pressure on the other person. 'I just want to take things slow' is the phrase, is it not? Ridiculous when applied to courtship. But in the case of... this? Perfect."

Another step backwards.

"It's going to be slow, Doc. Why would I want to rush it?"

He left. Doc didn't move from the floor. All he could think about was an entire lifetime of O'Malley, and how much he didn't want it. How terrified he was that O'Malley had somehow gotten into such a large amount of his life.

And even so, he was still afraid of running away. There was no other job available where he'd be able to help people, and he couldn't give that up. It was all he had.

* * *

There was one thing that could distract Church. Grif's insanely large supply of pruno.

"Come on, you stupid... they must've... must've locked the doors early or some shit like that," Church grumbled.

"Church, you're trying to open the floor."

"Oh." Church paused from where he had been hitting his fist against the floor. "Motherfucking floor doesn't have enough trapdoors."

"I'll drink to that."

"You'll drink to anything."

"What's your point?"

"Yeah, screw it." Church lifted his small plastic bag of alcohol in some sort of toast, although he was still lying on the floor so it was hard to tell. "Right... to alcohol. I don't even fucking remember what I was upset about."

"Taking a wild guess here... but I'd say it's about the whole Tucker thing."

There was a long pause.

"Fuuuuck. Now I'm thinking about that shit again. Thanks a fucking lot, douchebag."

"Hey, you calling me a douchebag?" Grif gestured at Church's bag of alcohol. "I'm the one supplying you with alcohol, you want me to cut you off?"

"...My bad. But, seriously... no talking about Tucker. I don't... fucking care," Church slurred. Grif rolled his eyes. Grif was holding his liquor much better than Church was. Of course, Grif was superhumanly good at doing so.

"Yeah, you do."

"No. Don't. Fuck off."

"Okay, Church? Seriously. I know about you and Tucker. Some crazy, suppressed caring right there. If I had girly parts or was Donut, I'd probably call it 'cute.'"

"Oh, shit." Church climbed to his feet, wavering. "...Donut told you, didn't he? Motherfucker."

"Donut? Didn't even know he knew. It's just obvious. I mean, the whole 'pretend you don't care and insult him regularly so they don't realise it' thing? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, frisbee and badges to prove it." Grif took a long drink of pruno. "But that's besides the point. Lemme get this straight. You're a douche."

"I fucking know."

"But seeing you mope in here day after day is depressing. And hearing you talk in your sleep, and shouting and punching the walls, so on and so forth... gets really old. I know you're worried, but Church... sitting here and spiraling into depression won't do shit for it and I'm sure Tucker wouldn't want that to happen. Fucker was always far too cheerful."

Church stared blearily at Grif, who drained his bag of pruno with a few more gulps. "The fuck do you know about that kind of shit?"

"Trust me on this. Just because I'm a lazy ass, doesn't mean I don't know some things. With the Tucker thing... you don't have to admit you care." Grif shuddered. "That's just embarrassing and girly anyway."

Church frowned. Thoughts were struggling through his pruno-stunned brain.

_I... I'm not supposed to care about things. I'm fucking Church. I don't fucking care about things. It's the... fucking... painkillers..._

…

_Who the fuck am I kidding? If... if I didn't fucking care, I wouldn't have moped for the last week. I wouldn't be freaking out at just the idea of Tucker being cold and having dead eyes. I wouldn't be drinking myself into a stupor with a chubby Hawaiian guy._

_Dammit. I care. Okay, I fucking care. I fucking care way too fucking much. Stupid fucking brain, are you happy? No, other part of brain, I'm not. Oh fuck, I'm talking to myself... inside my head. I hate it when that fucking happens._

"You're not even listening, are you?"

"Fuck this shit... I just want to stop thinking. God, I wish I was Caboose right now, he's practically brain dead."


	50. Chapter 48: Mother

**Chapter Forty-Eight: Mother**

"Church is not moving," Caboose said, prodding Church in the shoulder after setting down his food tray. There was no response. Caboose then tried clapping his hands next to Church's ear, followed by shaking him lightly. This just got an annoyed grunt, but then he kept sleeping.

"He's just asleep. Massive hangover," Grif mumbled, holding his juice box to his own forehead. "Why the hell did you bring him out here? Did you carry him to the cafeteria?"

"I thought he would want food."

"Just leave him for a while, he'll wake up eventually."

"Okay."

_If Church is able to sleep, that must mean he is not as sad. Or he is having one of those special sleeps that it is hard to wake up from, like when doctors would poke me with sharp things and I would get all sleepy. I hope it is normal sleep._

Caboose started his morning ritual of sorting his cereal into two piles. While he did so, he noticed York walking towards their table. Caboose paused in the middle of his sorting. It was visitor's day, and if Sheila was visiting then York would tell him so.

"Alright... Grif, Simmons and Donut. You three are getting visitors today."

Donut choked on his cereal. "What? That's... really?"

"Uh, yeah. Don't look so surprised."

Caboose wondered idly why Donut looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. Maybe someone had decided to be stupid and put the powdery yellow stuff from the macaroni in his jumpsuit. Tucker had done that once to Church, and Church had shouted at him all day. Tucker could not macaroni people now, because he was hurt. Church was acting like Tucker was not going to come back, but Tucker was probably too stupid to stay away from the prison. Caboose would like to stay away from the prison. But then he would be away from Church, and that would be bad. And he could not follow Sheila around on the outside. Sheila was always busy at the hospital, and Caboose had tried following her when he was living at the hospital but then he got scared by all the needles. So, Caboose would not want to stay away from the prison.

Caboose frowned at his cereal. York hadn't said Caboose's name on the people with visitors list. That meant Sheila wasn't visiting him that day. That made him sad. He needed to tell Sheila about all the stuff that happened and ask what he should do. Church was not very askable. Especially when he was either crazy sad or unconscious. Which he always was, lately.

Donut had returned to poking at his cereal, still looking like someone had macaronied his clothes. Caboose opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but then he remembered that he was still upset at Donut. Even though he did not like seeing Donut uncomfortable. Donut's face still had purple patches on it. Caboose didn't like that, either.

_I should not have been sitting in my cell being upset. If I was being protective like Church told me to, Donut would not have gotten hurt. But I cannot protect Donut because he is a liar. But Church says it is okay to talk to him. I am still upset, but I really want to talk to Donut again. Maybe he will not want to. Maybe he will be mad because I was mad. And I am still mad. I do not know what to do... _

_I need to talk to Margretta. She might be able to help. Even though she does not talk back much. But first I must wait for Church to wake up. He would not be happy if I left him in the cafeteria._

* * *

Donut paced nervously, waiting to be let into the visitors' room. None of his old friends would be likely to be the visitors. Most of them had freaked out at the fact that he'd killed his roommate, and they were very shallow, fickle people anyway. Donut readily admitted that, he'd only known them for a few months anyway.

There were only two people that his visitor could be. One of his mothers. That made Donut nervous. The last time they'd seen each other had been a little awkward as it was, and that had been before the incident. He didn't know what they'd say about him being a convicted felon.

Donut shifted nervously, linking his fingers together behind his back and rocking back and forth on his feet. He felt a little scared. Not the 'I'm-going-to-die' kind of scared that he'd felt so much in the last few months, more the kind of scared when he used to steal cookies and Mama Julie would catch him at it. Only a lot stronger.

Simmons was sitting down, twiddling his fingers together. Grif was already in the room. Simmons looked up at Donut. "You look nervous."

"I haven't seen my mums in a while... I don't know how they're going to react."

"Wish I could say something comforting. But I'm not really good on the subject of parents." Simmons shrugged. "If they love you, they'll forgive whatever you've done. Right?"

"I hope so."

"Franklin Delano Donut?" A guard had opened the door. "You can go in."

Donut nodded to Simmons and stepped into the room. Donut saw Grif sitting at one cubicle, talking to a girl wearing clothes that were really revealing for winter. More importantly, the clothes totally clashed in colour. Donut walked past other inmates talking with their own guests. At the back of the room on the other side of the glass, Donut saw York talking to a man with strangely yellow eyes, who was being followed by a six-year-old holding some crayon pictures.

Donut then reached the cubicle he'd been walking towards. A woman with short, blonde hair sat there. The blonde hair was a lot greyer than the last time Donut had seen her.

"Mama Liz?"

Mama Liz looked up. For a moment, she looked more stressed than Donut was used to seeing her, and her mouth had been pulled into a frown. But she quickly grinned.

"Crumbcake? Oh my god, it's really you! I was so worried! What happened to your face?" Her face had quickly gotten alarmed. Donut shook his head, inwardly cursing the obvious bruises.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Donut said, attempting to smile back at her. "How're you? And how's Mama Julie?"

"I'm fine, fine! And Ju-Ju's doing okay... very tired, but she's well enough. She wanted to come, but we could only afford for one of us to travel this far and stay for even just a couple of days, and I'm not sure if she's up for long distances. She said to say hi, by the way. I can embellish the message to make it sound more emotional, if you want."

Donut grinned a little. "I think I'd be more worried if the message was emotional..."

"She might show up next time. Hey, wait. We're supposed to be talking about you, crumbcake. Are you doing okay? Are you eating well? Getting enough exercise? Getting enough hugs?"

"It's not as bad as I thought it would be from the movies. They don't serve us nothing but gruel and bologna sandwiches. Although I don't know what they put in the macaroni. Plus, we have yard time. I love yard time."

"And the hugs?"

"I don't think most of the guys here are receptive to that kind of stuff."

"Aw... I can't even hug you through this glass... and mental hugs just don't work, they're not as warm and comforting..." Mama Liz's mouth shook, and she raised her hand to wipe her eyes, which were starting to water. "I can't hug you anymore. Even though we're less than two feet apart. It doesn't feel real."

Donut cut Mama Liz off before she started crying. Donut always got scared when Mama Liz cried. "It'll be alright, Mama. I'll be out before you know it."

"You're sentenced for life, crumbcake. That's the opposite of no time at all."

"Yeah, but I'm up for parole in twenty years, provided I'm good. And you know me. I'm a good boy."

"I know, dear."

There was a long silence, as they both tried to think of something to say that wouldn't bring up anything related to Donut's sentence. Mama Liz gave up first.

"Crumbcake... I, I just..." Mama Liz shook her head. "I never thought you'd... end up here."

Donut looked downwards at his hands, which were laced together on the table. The hands that had long since stopped being manicured. "I didn't think so, either... it's not like I planned to have a crazy roommate. I mean... I guess I should have seen the signs, but I just thought he was eccentric."

"I can't judge, I had some strange roomies. Of course, one of those was Ju-Ju, so some good came out of it in my case."

Donut fiddled with his fingers. "Mama Julie is definitely doing okay? She's... she's healthy?"

"At the moment, yeah. Sorry it took me so long to visit you, crumb, but I couldn't leave until she was feeling a bit better, you know?"

"Of course! I understand, don't worry about it," Donut said hurredly. "It's fine, I just... I mean, it's fine!"

"Good! Good. She's still a little under the weather, but she's doing okay. Grumpy, especially what with... you being here and all. And she's gone off cop shows since then. Says they're not fun to watch when... you know." Mama Liz shrugged.

More awkward silence. This time, Donut broke it. "So... you're not mad?"

"Mad? Crumbcake, if it was in self-defence, I'd much rather this than the alternative! How can I be mad at you for you living? Besides, even if it wasn't... I'm your mother. If you burn half the world down I'll still try to be there. Although you would be so grounded if that ever happened..."

Donut laughed sheepishly. "I'm not planning on it. ...Thanks, Mama."

"Oh, Mama Julie would say the same if she wasn't so uptight. As it is, she'd only say the grounded part."

"Okay... Can you tell her I'm sorry for getting thrown in here? And that I'm sorry I'm not there?"

"Sure... But I'm sure she already knows."

* * *

"Ow," Church groaned. "What the fuck is up with my head?"

"Hi, Church!"

"Caboose, shut up." Church opened his eyes and looked around. "How did I get to the fucking cafeteria? And why the fuck are you here?"

"I brought you out here! Because it was breakfast time and you would not get up! And Mrs. McCrabby let me out of the boxy room at breakfast time, which is why I went to get you for breakfast time so we could have best friend talk!"

"Quiet the fuck down, will you? Jesus fucking Christ."

"Sorry!" Caboose whispered loudly.

The events of the previous night were a little fuzzy... and they just blurred entirely after a while. But he remembered Grif telling him to grow a pair and stop moping over Tucker. Along with a lot of shouting over floors.

"Church?" Caboose tilted his head. "Are you okay? Are you still sad? I was hoping, since you got sleep, that you would be happy again. Can you please be happy again?"

Church rubbed his forehead, trying to block out the throbbing headache.

_Can I be happy again? Of course I fucking can't. When have I ever been really happy since I was locked up in this fucking hellhole? I know the answer to that. Fucking Tucker. Funny how I don't realise how much I rely on him until he's gone. Fucking jackass._

_But... guess moping won't help him get better. And it's fucking pathetic._

Church sighed. "I'll... be fine. Don't worry about it."

"Okay. Can you go to the library with me? I still cannot read book titles. Miller will not be there. He cannot pick up books anymore, so he is not in the library." Caboose rocked back and forth on his chair, pulling his puppy dog eyes. "Please?"

Gotta find distractions. I gotta stop moping, or else Tucker is just gonna make fun of me and call me a bitch if... when... he gets back.

Church rolled his eyes. "Alright. This is the only time I'm gonna do this, though."

Caboose smiled widely. "Yay! Best friend time!"


	51. Chapter 49: Back

**Chapter Forty-Nine: Back**

More than a fortnight had gone by.

Currently, Church was trying to read. Thankfully, it was easier to get books than usual; since Miller had been retired as a librarian until his hands healed up, Church could actually go in there without being hurt. He had managed to distract himself a little. Even though Caboose always wanted to follow Church to the library and be read to, and Church just didn't have the patience for that...

At this point, Church could stay distracted during the day. The night was different. When the lights went out and it became too dark to read, all the thoughts that Church kept suppressed during the day would catch up with him. He'd be haunted in his dreams by the cold, dead-eyed version of Tucker. The dreams varied, but Tucker was always there. Church would wake up with cold hands and a gnawing feeling at the bottom of his stomach.

Church frowned at the book that he had propped up next to his food tray. Breakfast was difficult. The dreams still poked at the back of Church's head. And Church was too busy zoning out to either read his book or notice Simmons poking him.

"Church! Church!" Simmons' incessant prodding didn't get his attention. Church didn't snap out of it until Grif lightly smacked him over the head.

"Ow! What the fuck, Grif?"

"Tucker's back."

This didn't process through Church's brain as quickly as it should have. "What?"

"Tucker's back, dipshit. Saw him being taken to the infirma-" Grif didn't even manage to finish before Church was up and moving for the infirmary.

_He's back? He's alive?_

Within record time, Church sprinted to the infirmary and started hammering on the door.

"Doc! Open the door!"

The door opened an inch, and Doc's eye stared out.

"You got here fast. He barely arrived five minutes ago."

"Let me in, come on."

"I'm not really supposed to let just any inmate in here, especially when there's patients. Sometimes it ends badly. Once I let a guy in to visit his 'friend' and he smuggled a shiv in with him."

"You remember the last time you wouldn't let someone in? Caboose kicked down the fucking door. And I might not have the crazy strength he does, but I'll do the same fucking thing."

Doc sighed and opened the door wider. "You know, you could have just asked nicely." Church grunted in return, before stepping in and seeing Tucker lying on the cot.

At first glance, Tucker didn't look hurt, until Church noticed he was breathing slower and deeper. In and out, in and out. But he was still breathing. Church dragged a stool over and sat down next to Tucker's cot, gazing at Tucker more closely. Tucker didn't appear to be in pain, but he had a lucid, sleepy expression that Church could only associate with heavy painkillers.

Church didn't know what to say. He'd worried about Tucker for more than three weeks, but now that Tucker was in front of him... Church just didn't have any words.

Tucker moved his head a little to the side to look at Church better and grinned sleepily. "Ha... Thought you were rid of me. In your face." He lifted his arm a little in a tired and drugged victory gesture.

Church had frozen completely, his mind still blanking on what to say. Whatever weak suggestions his mind might have been sending him was being completely blocked out by the tidal wave of relief, among other very strong feelings. Which made Church uncomfortable on its own... he wasn't used to feeling so much at once. And those feelings were telling Church to do a lot of different things... the top three seemed to be hugging, crying and punching Tucker in the face for causing it all.

"Church? Hey, Church?" Tucker was speaking slower than usual, partly because he was completely high on painkillers and partly because he had to pause to breathe every few words. His voice was a little raspy, like it had fallen out of use. "You... you there, man?"

"So, you're not dead, huh?" Church finally managed to say, in what he hoped was a 'not-that-I-care' kind of voice.

"Nah. Breathing hurts like a... a fucking bitch, though. But they gave me painkillers, so it's all good. Well, it'd be good if I was allowed to leave the infirmary... I'm really sick of hospitals and stuff at the moment."

"You're not leaving until you're fully healed," Doc said from the doorway.

"Psh." Tucker waved his hand. He tried to sit up a little, but winced and settled back down again, gazing at Church. "You look like shit. What's been going on?"

_It's been horrible. I spent every non-distracted moment thinking about you and how you might have never come back. I spent every night dreaming about it. I spent three weeks terrified that you were going to die out there. Because... Because you're a fucking asshole, but you're also the only thing keeping me sane in this place..._

"Fine, I guess. Not much shit happened," Church said offhandedly.

"Guess that's better than shit happening." Tucker continued staring at him. He was frowning. "But, seriously. You look awful. And I don't mean that in the usual making-fun-of-you way."

"I look awful? You're the one who was almost killed."

Tucker made a noise that might have been intended to be a chuckle, but it just sounded raspy. "Yeah, takes more than that to kill me off. Got too much to live for, right? I'm a lover not a... die-er? I don't fucking know... that sounded more coherent in my head."

Church looked down at Tucker, who grinned back at him. Those eyes weren't the dead ones Church had been seeing in his dreams for the last three weeks. Even though Tucker was still bedridden and raspy, not to mention drugged up on painkillers, those eyes were lively.

Tucker was actually going to be fine, and Church was so damn relieved. But his chest really hurt, like something had just imploded.

"Half the shit you say doesn't make sense. You're a dumbass drugged up on painkillers," Church told him.

"Church, please don't insult the patients," Doc muttered reproachfully.

"Eh... Apart from the dumbass comment... yeah, you pretty much nailed it," Tucker admitted.

"'Course I did."

"Um... Church?"

"Goddammit, Doc. What?"

"Well, I kind of wanted to try and get Tucker to go to sleep. He was only just transferred back here and he still needs a lot of rest. I don't think he'll be able to get that with you here." Church glared at Doc, who raised his hands nervously. "Uh. No offence. It's just... uh... you know how it is. Please don't hurt me."

"Church, you're gonna give the guy a heart attack if you keep glaring," Tucker said. "I'm probably gonna fall asleep soon anyway. It's not like I'm going anywhere."

"Yeah, you better not." Church didn't move his eyes from Doc. "If you don't let me in tomorrow... I'm kicking down the door."

"Okay, just... don't break anything..."

Church turned back to Tucker. "Fine, I'll go... I'm gonna be back pretty early tomorrow, so you better not be bitchy about me interrupting your naps or some shit."

"Right."

Church shifted nervously, then reached out and clapped a hand on Tucker's shoulder. "Tucker, I... I'm glad you're alive. You know that, right?"

Tucker blinked. "Actually, no. I didn't know." Tucker looked downwards, grinning sheepishly. "But don't go getting all girly and emotional on me, alright?"

"Pfft. What do you take me for? I didn't miss you that much."

_I'm a fucking liar._

Once Church was shooed out by Doc, who was babbling something about needing a better lock on the infirmary door, Church started walking back to the cafeteria. He opened and closed the hand he had grasped Tucker's shoulder with, looking down at it. Tucker had felt warm.

_In your face, nightmares! In your motherfucking face!_

If Church could just fucking deal with the pain in his chest, then he'd be pretty damn happy at the moment.

* * *

"Simmons? Do you have a bucket?"

"Why would I have a bucket?"

Donut shrugged, walking after Grif and Simmons. "I don't know... really, anything big enough for me to wash my clothes in is good."

"Well, I don't have anything. Ask Wyoming," Simmons told him, gesturing across the yard at Wyoming, who was sitting down in the corner under the shade of the stone walls and smoking elegantly, as he always did.

"But I can't afford both fabric softener and a bucket... stupid Wyoming prices," Donut grumbled. "Grif, do you have a bucket? I need something to at least wash my underwear in! These ones are so itchy! I can't live with itchy crotch any longer!"

"I got nothing. But next time, we really don't need to hear about your crotch," Grif groaned. "Too much information, Donut."

Donut pouted and crossed his arms. "Aw... How can it be so hard to find a freaking bucket?"

"Eh. I'm sure there's some reason that they don't supply buckets. Maybe you can scavenge something you can use from the laundry rooms. Probably not."

"This place sucks."

"Wow, Donut. Prison sucks. Really? I never would have guessed."

"Shut up, Grif."

* * *

"Caboose."

"Hm?"

"You're staring at me."

"No, I am not. I am staring in a completely opposite direction."

"Caboose, you're still doing it. Quit it."

Church went back to eating his macaroni (not picking at his food like he had been for the last few weeks) but Caboose kept gazing at him. Church twitched angrily.

"Caboose. Fuck off, seriously."

Caboose tilted his head, his face scrunched up in thought. Then comprehension spread across it. "Tucker is back?"

"Didn't I tell you?"

"No."

"Then how the fuck did you figure out that Tucker was back?"

"Because you are not as frowny. You are still frowny... but not sad frowny. Just angry frowny," Caboose told him. "You are always angry frowny, though. So that is your version of happy."

"The fuck you talking about? I wasn't sad," Church muttered. _Damn Caboose. Why does he clue in when I really don't want him to?_

Caboose laced his hands together, gazing at Church in what Caboose probably thought was an intelligent manner. "Church... I am not stupid."

Church choked on his macaroni and was stuck between coughing and laughing for the next thirty seconds. Once he'd gotten control of himself, he said, "That's one of the stupidest things I've heard lately. You can't even read!"

"You do not need to know how to read to see sad faces, Church."

"Yeah... well..." Church glared at his food for a moment. "So? I was... just depressed about something else."

"What else would you be sad about? Tucker is your second-best friend."

_What else would I be sad about, indeed? Dammit, am I being so obvious that even Caboose can figure it out? God, I suck. Come on, Church. You used to be able to act fine... how else could you have lied for years to keep you and Eddie going? And yet you're shit enough at it to tip off Caboose?_

_Dammit, I need practice at lying_.

"What makes you so sure I'm happy now? I'm never happy in this hellhole."

"You just laughed. You have not even smiled for a long time."

Church couldn't think of a reply to that. Instead, he returned to eating his macaroni, scowling a little more than before. Trying to ignore Caboose and also trying to block out the sounds of Grif, Simmons and Donut's conversation, which was floating over to them even though they were sitting a few seats away.

"All I'm saying is that fabric softener would stop riots occuring as much, in a roundabout way. You wouldn't want to attack people if you weren't so itchy, right? I just need a bucket! I'll bring prison-wide peace!"

"That's a pipe dream, Donut."

"Says you!"

Church groaned and put his head in his hands.

_I hate this place._


	52. Chapter 50: Forgiveness

**Chapter Fifty: Forgiveness**

Painkillers, or pain alleviators as Doc often referred to them, were the best thing ever. Tucker couldn't recall feeling so relaxed in a long time. And even doing boring things like staring at the ceiling had a weird sort of appeal. Tucker gazed with lucid fascination at the ceiling. Yes, indeed. Who knew ceiling cracks could be so interesting?

Everything was fine, as long as Tucker remembered to breathe. Long and deep, long and deep. Tucker couldn't quite remember why he had to breathe like that... might have had something to do with risk of... something. Stupid lungs.

The door swung open. Tucker didn't move his gaze from the ceiling immediately. He only did so when he heard Church speak.

"Still not dead?"

"I don't think so. I feel too good. If I was dead I'd probably be stuck in a fire with a pitchfork up my ass or something." Tucker grinned at Church. "Painkillers are awesome, man. They're... hang on, I need to compare to something. Somewhere between sex and... really good sex."

"You're an idiot."

"And right now it feels awesome."

"So, you're doing alright?"

"Fuck yeah, I am. I'm stoned as hell. I start to feel shitty every few hours, then Doc throws more painkillers at me and I feel great again."

Church gazed absently into space, drumming his fingers against his thighs. Tap-tappity-tap. For some reason, it was annoying Tucker. Maybe because Tucker was supposed to be the one zoning out, not Church.

"Hey! Church?"

"Hm?"

"You're zoning out on me, dude."

"Yeah, I was just... thinking about shit." Church shifted a bit. "By the way. Snitch Miller in?"

"Oh, totally forgot. I think I meant to, and then I saw the ceiling cracks and got distracted with the whole not dying thing, and other trivial shit." Tucker tried pushing himself up a little, since he was sick of lying flat on his back. But even the painkillers couldn't completely stifle the pain when he tried. "Ow, fuck. I gotta stop doing that."

"I kept trying to get up after I was stabbed, too. Lying down for too long sucks ass."

"Totally. Anyway, so Miller's off scot free."

"Fuck no." Church paused and looked around the infirmary. "...Doc around?"

"Nah, he went to get some food or some shit like that."

"Good, because as far as he knows, Miller broke all his fingers by slamming them in a door."

"He broke all his fingers?"

"Caboose helped."

"Ah."

"I have to say, watching Miller try to pick up things and having to get his goons to cut up his food for him... it's a real mood booster."

Tucker grinned at the ceiling. "Making me feel better just hearing it..." Tucker's grin faded a little. "Wait. So, Caboose broke his fingers, yeah?"

"Yeah. I didn't tell him to, he just did."

"Why?"

"Guess he still likes Dye-Job. Also, he said he didn't like me moping."

"Moping?" It took a few moments to process. "You were fucking moping?" Tucker laughed. "You girl."

Tucker then had to blink a couple of times, because Church had actually gone red. Church never went red. Never. He just didn't. Tucker rubbed his eyes. Must be a trick of the light or something. Because Church just doesn't go red.

"Shut up, Tucker," Church muttered. "I... I wasn't moping. Caboose just thought I was. And Caboose is a dumbass."

_And now he's back to insulting people. Ah, typical Church. Thank god, that definitely beats blushing like a schoolgirl... Heh. I'm so glad he can't read my mind. I don't think he can, anyway. Maybe he can. If he can, I am so fucked._

"You can't read my mind, can you?" Tucker asked.

"The fuck?"

"Oh, cool. That's a no, because if you could read my mind, you'd understand the train of thought that went to that question."

"I was just going to ask if you were stoned, but then I remembered the answer was 'fuck yeah.' So... yeah, I got nothing."

Tucker grinned sleepily again before yawning. "Mmhm." He blinked sleepily. "Think I'm gonna crash."

"What? I just fucking got here."

"Can't control when I do it, man. It's the painkillers and the general 'oh god, the pain' thing... Besides, if you're gonna be a lazy fuck then just hang around and chat to Doc, what the hell do I care?" Tucker yawned again before settling into his pillow. "Don't... wake me up or I'll... strangle you or... some..."

He was asleep before he finished talking.

* * *

_Bastards. Goddamn bastards._

Miller looked down at his hands. Thanks to Doc's 'treatment,' they looked more messed up than ever. They were supposed to at least be on their way to healing by now. If he'd kept them away from Doc maybe they would have had more of a chance of healing properly. But the way things were... they'd already started healing in funny positions.

And what could Miller do about it? Shit all. He was gonna be a fucking cripple the rest of his life because of that retarded kid. What was he supposed to do on the outside now? He couldn't go back to check swindling, he wouldn't be able to operate the tools necessary with his mangled hands. And he wouldn't be able to get many normal jobs, unless there was a job that only needed him to use his feet.

Miller couldn't even punch the wall to express his rage.

_Only three years left in here... and my life's already been goddamn wrecked._

Miller attempted to pick up a book with just his palms. The bandages made even that difficult. His hands were shaking, as they did every time he started to think about what had happened. And he just got so angry... he didn't know what he was going to do...

And he couldn't even get revenge.

Because even if Miller's life was ruined, he still had the chance to escape prison with it. He wasn't going to give up that chance.

* * *

Church tapped his fingers absently, glancing at Tucker every few seconds. Tucker was fast asleep by now. Church still kept an eye on him. He didn't know the details of what was wrong with Tucker, but he knew it had something to do with the ribs and lungs... so he kept wondering if Tucker was just going to stop breathing.

_Where the hell has Doc gone? He's a shit doctor... hell, he's not even a doctor. But I'd feel better if someone was at least watching Tucker and making sure he wasn't... well, dying. Urgh. I hate being concerned for people._

Church frowned, glaring at Tucker.

_Tucker, you're a jerk-off. Why'd you have to actually make me like you? You festering sack of whore._

Church waved his hand in front of Tucker's face, then prodded him in the shoulder. Just to see whether he was really asleep. Tucker didn't move, although he did let out a short snore. Church shook his head.

Goddamn, I hate you so much.

Church studied Tucker carefully. He still hadn't quite managed to get the dead-looking Tucker out of his head. Seeing Tucker with his usual warm, brown skin rather than the pale blue colour he'd had in the dream... it did help alleviate Church's fears. Not as much as Tucker actually feeling warm...

Church reached out and grasped Tucker's hand, which was lying motionless next to him. Definitely warm.

_You're just checking the temperature. Just checking to make sure he's not an ice cube. It'll be fine. As long as Tucker never, ever finds out. He'd never let me live it down._

Church didn't let go, however.

* * *

O'Malley sat on the pavement of the yard. It'd been a while since he was outside. He was thrown into solitary and shoved into the infirmary so much that he rarely got to be anywhere else.

He pondered what to do next. There were so many potential torture victims around. Church was always high up on the list... Church was the only one of his torture victims that O'Malley actually hated. It would be great to ruin Church's life, but it had kind of lost its novelty. After all, he'd already wrecked Church's life once. Doing it again when he had little to lose wasn't much fun.

There was Tex. But Tex was hard to get to without being beaten viciously. And it was the kind of torturing that had to be done little by little over a very long period of time. Three years, and O'Malley had hardly chipped at her. Tex wasn't the kind of victim O'Malley could focus all his energy on.

Caboose was, to be honest, getting very boring. He was a toy who had already been broken. He wasn't fun to play with anymore. He was just a fun trigger for torturing others. Fun to manipulate into hurting others, but on his own he just wasn't interesting anymore.

There were others, like the flaky pastry, but to be honest they weren't worth much more than the occasional bit of torture. He'd already messed around with Donut a bit. Ruining friendships was fun, but not an activity that would keep him amused over years. Plus, listening to the pastry was an exercise in mental torture.

O'Malley climbed to his feet, pacing around the yard. He hated it when most of the prison got boring. If it hadn't been for how amusing Doc was to him he'd probably be going mad with boredom.

Of course, Doc was hopeless when it came to affecting others. After all, no-one cared about him. Many mercilessly mocked him. O'Malley grinned to himself as he walked around the yard towards Wyoming.

_Just makes him an easier target. And if I can coerce him into complaining to me again... I'll have back my old method for choosing victims. And then things will be interesting again... I still need another weapon to torture with, however..._

Wyoming's response to this was expected.

"Has it been a year, chum? I already informed you, no more weapons for a year. Do you wish to put me out of business?" Wyoming asked.

"I need something sharp!"

"And furthermore... Do you even have the funds to pay for such things? You've spent the last half of the year largely in the infirmary or in solitary."

"...Curses."

Wyoming nodded, lighting a cigarette. "I'm afraid if you want another screwdriver, or some other sharp item... I must charge you an extra fee. You are inferring a lot of risk onto me through your little games."

"You're making too big a deal out of this, Wyoming. Fine! You'll have your fees..." O'Malley muttered ominously. Wyoming was not impressed.

"Don't get caught with your screwdriver so quickly next time." Wyoming blew out some smoke. "Incidentally, perhaps you could try other methods of inflicting pain? Cigarette burns are quite painful in the right places, and much more discreet."

"Not the same. No blood, less screaming..."

_Curse Wyoming and his cautiousness! I need a new henchman._

O'Malley started making his way back to the prison. Perhaps he would find Doc again. He could do a variety of things to Doc. He could physically or mentally hurt Doc, or he could just continue stroking his pet. That did get the most delicious reactions.

But whatever he chose to do out of the almost limitless possibilities... for now, Doc was the best source of entertainment O'Malley had.

* * *

"You know what would be great? Strip poker."

"Hell no, Donut."

"I kind of like the idea," Grif said, grinning. "Four aces. Shirt goes off, Simmons!"

"We're not playing strip poker!" Simmons shouted, his ears going red.

Donut pouted. "Killjoy."

Simmons rolled his eyes. "Dumbasses. Both of you."

Donut shifted his position on the concrete, dropping his cards back onto the deck. The concrete was making his butt numb from sitting still too long.

"Uh... Donut?"

Donut turned around to see Caboose standing there, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Caboose wasn't looking at Donut, he was still determinately staring upwards at the sky. But this was only the second time he had even directed a word towards Donut since he'd told Donut to get out of his cell. He was clinging to the toy pigeon Donut had given him.

"Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you?"

"Oh. Um. Sure."

Donut climbed to his feet and followed Caboose further away from Grif and Simmons, who resumed their arguing about strip poker. Caboose continued shifting from foot to foot.

After a few long moments in which neither of them said anything, Donut asked, "What do you want to talk about?"

"Uhmmm..."

"So, uh."

"Yeah. Um..."

"Uhhhh..."

"Er..."

_This is the most awkward conversation I've had in my entire life._

"Th...thank you."

Donut blinked, half from surprise that a proper sentence had been said. "Huh? For what?"

"For... for the pigeon." Caboose hugged the pigeon a little closer. "I... I still do not trust her. But she is cuddly and comforting... and I am happy and... yes. Thank you." Caboose was still not looking at him.

"It was nothing..." Donut concentrated on his feet, while Caboose continued to look at the sky. "Uh. Was that all?"

"No! Just... uh. I need to... try and think." Caboose took a few deep breaths. "I... I am still upset at you. And I do not trust you. You did a bad thing. You tricked me and helped hurt Church." Donut nodded, still focusing on his feet. "And that means that... that you were probably always lying about being my friend. But..." Donut heard Caboose sigh. "I am not good with words."

"It's alright. If you can't think of the right words right away, I'll just wait until you can. I'm not going to shout at you or anything."

"Well... we have not talked for..." Caboose paused and attempted to count his fingers. "...A long time. And that long time has been... not fun. It was a sad time, and I did not like it. And... even though you were lying about the wizard story, I still liked it. And... um... You did bad things, but I do not hate you. Not much... And, uh... Oh no, I forgot what I was supposed to say next. I think it had something to do with... uh... I don't remember! Now I have to start aga-"

Donut cut off Caboose's increasingly frantic babbling by stepping forward and hugging Caboose tightly.

"I missed you, too," Donut said quietly.

Caboose's arms hovered a few inches from Donut, like he wasn't quite sure what to do. And he looked uncomfortable. Similar to the last hug that had happened between them. Except Donut had been the uncomfortable one then, due to the rib-cracking pain of Caboose's hugs. Caboose awkwardly patted Donut on the back before stepping out of the hug.

"I... still do not trust you."

A small smile crossed Donut's face. "Well... guess I'll have to work on it."

Caboose fidgeted, before he actually managed to look at Donut. He smiled wryly. "...I guess... if Church can forgive you... then I can, too. Because Church would not forgive you and tell me to talk to you unless you were... not completely a liar."

Donut grinned wider. "Alright. Friends?" He held out one of his hands. Caboose tilted his head, before smiling slightly and shaking it. Which left Donut's hand with a strong ache.

"Okay. Friends."

* * *

"Simmons? Did we wake up in the girl's prison this morning?" Grif asked, after watching Donut and Caboose's awkward conversation and hug. "Seriously. What the fuck is up with this girly crap?"

"Eh. Beats Donut following us absolutely everywhere."

"That's true..." Grif stretched and grinned at Simmons. "If he latches onto Caboose, we can play strip poker by ourselves. Minus the poker." Simmons tossed one of the cards at Grif, and it bounced off his head. "Hey! That was not cool..."

"I just threw a playing card at you, Grif. Don't be a wuss."

"Douchebag."


	53. Flashback: Chapter Three

**Flashback – Part Three**

Church had no clue what he was doing. He had no clue where they were going. He'd never say it out loud, because he didn't want to frighten Eddie, but he had no plan except to keep running. That's all they'd been doing for the past couple of weeks. Jumping on trains, buses, whatever... just trying to get away from what they'd left behind. They'd crossed states, and still they didn't stop except at night, because a nineteen-year-old carrying around a six-year-old at nighttime would just raise questions... But during the day, they just kept running.

But Church knew they couldn't run forever. Eddie was too exhausted and Church wasn't doing well himself. So now Church walked the streets, looking for somewhere cheap to stay. He was carrying Eddie, who was sleeping and dribbling on his shoulder. He was heavy. Church shifted Eddie's weight to his other arm, though both arms ached at this point.

Church had known they couldn't run forever, but what were they going to do? If they hadn't discovered Church's father yet, it would only be a matter of time. And then what was going to happen?

_Can't wander around like this... can't wander around as Leonard and Eddie Church. Church isn't that common a last name. Need new names. Need a new ID and shit. Where the fuck do you get that kind of thing?_

_Maybe someone in the shadier areas of the city would know. Sure, I got no idea where I am, but... might as well have a look._

_I can't take Eddie there, though. That'd be fucking stupid. Gotta find somewhere to stay._

After making Eddie hide while Church paid for a motel room with money he had stolen a few days ago, and then sneaking Eddie in so that the woman renting out rooms wouldn't ask why he was carrying around a six-year-old, Church explained what he was going to do.

Eddie didn't like it.

"You're leaving me here?"

"Just for a few hours!" Church sighed and ran his fingers through his hair nervously. He didn't like that terrified expression on Eddie's face. "It'll be fine. This is a safe part of the city, gangsters aren't going to kick down the door or anything."

"I'm scared."

"Don't be. We'll be fine. I just need to check some things in a scarier place, you'll be much safer here."

"But... But you are going somewhere scary. That's why I'm scared. What if you don't come back?" Eddie asked, his voice shaking.

"I'm not abandoning you. Alright?" Church hugged Eddie tightly. "And there's no fucking-ah, sorry... no way that I'm letting anyone stop me from getting back here. I don't want to leave you here, believe me. I just got no choice. You can be a big boy about this, right?"

Eddie nodded. "Okay... I will stay in the room and be a big boy."

"Good." Church ruffled his hair. "I think there's some food in my bag, just eat that if you get hungry. And then get some rest. I'm pretty sure you need some sleep."

_I know I could use a fucking nap... but there's no time._

* * *

Church may have been robbing houses for six years, but until two weeks ago he'd never done anything criminal beyond that. Hell, he'd never even done minor things like underage drinking. When would he have the time to do crap like that? He'd been the only thing holding his home together, and even then it was like the home was being held together with really shitty glue. So it wasn't like he really had any time to do anything beyond stealing what they needed to get by.

So even though nothing too eventful had happened during that first stroll through the more suspicious areas of the city, Church had been scared shitless the entire time. It had been noisy and smelly and he was pretty sure he heard gunshots a couple of times. At one point he had to run because he offended a group of gang members that he'd assumed would know where to find a fake ID, since they all looked much younger than twenty-one and smelt like a mixture between strong alcohol and fuel.

It had, incidentally, been a bar that Church had finally found some information. It had been a hangout for cons, and the bartender, a man called C.T, had known where to find someone who could sort it out for Church. That information alone had cost Church every cent he had. So when Church finally reached the apartment of the man who the bartender had recommended – at three in the morning no less – the man, named Jimmy, had been less than pleased.

"You wake me up at three in the morning, claiming that you need fake identification, records, the whole shebang, for both you and a kid brother... and you don't even have ten cents to your name," Jimmy said slowly.

"I can pay you back later."

"No can do, buddy. You pay upfront or you don't get anything." Jimmy attempted to close the door on Church, but Church jammed his foot in to stop him. He then discovered that it hurt a lot more than it looked.

After two solid minutes of hopping around and swearing, Jimmy ended up letting him into the apartment while Church regained use of his foot. Mostly because Church had woken up half the apartment building with his torrent of creative language and had attracted a lot of unwelcome attention doing so.

"I'll pay you back, man. But I really need this stuff. Like, now. I can't wait a couple of months. We don't have that kind of time!"

"You could be planning to run off without paying. Or you could be planning to hand the evidence over to the cops. A lotta cops in this area already know and just let it slide because we're a good lead on the real nasty cases, but not all of them." Jimmy sat down opposite from Church, squinting at Church through sleep-deprived eyes. "Sorry, but no money, no deal."

"There's gotta be something I can do. Just... I don't care what. Anything, I don't fucking care," Church said desperately. "If it was just me I'd wait it out, but..."

"I hear you." Jimmy scratched his head thoughtfully. "Well... You got any criminal experience? I assume you must, since you've come here."

"Just breaking into houses."

"Hm. Greenhorn. Right. But... if you needed money that bad, I bet I could find a quick job for you. The employer would just pass the money straight to us. It'd probably be done within a few hours."

Church crossed his arms. "What kind of work?"

"Since you're already experienced at B&E, probably that. Sure there's something, hold on. Lemme get Mickey, he'll be able to contact someone who knows most of the jobs going around..."

"I can't do it during the day. I gotta keep a watch on Eddie. I don't want to have to explain why there's a six-year-old in the motel room."

"You could leave him with Sigma. He lives upstairs. He's our go-to guy for all the ID photos and forgery stuff, anyway, so you'll need to visit him anyway. He can even dye your kid's hair and everything so that he won't be instantly recognisable."

"You're suggesting I leave my brother with a complete stranger?"

"Sigma's trustworthy. ...Well, by criminal standards. He doesn't do bad stuff pointlessly. He's not going to kidnap him or hurt him. There's no reason to, you haven't pissed off anyone nor do you have anything we want. Already know you have no money. Besides, we're criminals, sure... but we're not that sick."

"What if you're gonna rat us out to the cops?"

"That'd involve explaining why you ended up here. Look, you want work or not? And do you want to risk leaving Eddie alone in a motel? Because I ain't seen a nice motel in this city yet, even on the good side of town. Cockroaches everywhere."

Church sighed, scratching his head. "Guess not. Already afraid of room service wandering in or some shit."

* * *

Roughly nineteen hours after his first meeting with Jimmy, Church had a job.

The first part was easy. Find the house. Only difficult because Mickey had written down the address and he had terrible handwriting. Apparently, Jimmy and Mickey did own a printer, but it'd been lost under the piles of paper and other garbage they had lying around.

Getting into the window was hard. Most of the windows were higher up than what he was accustomed to. It was a nice, spacious house. Whoever owned it had some fancy job. Might have been a doctor or something, hospitals were definitely involved.

Church had tried to get in through the tiny little windows that led into what was presumably the basement, but they seemed to have been sealed from the inside. In the end, he had to sneak away to a nearby house and borrow a ladder. Awkward.

Church winced as the ladder made a clanking sound while being propped up against the wall of the house. He hoped that hadn't woken the owner up. Jimmy said there was about fifty percent chance of him being out of the house. Church hoped he wasn't there, but his luck hadn't been great lately.

Church crept through the house, freezing every time there was a creak from the floorboards. It felt like an eternity before he arrived at the study. Much like the room Jimmy and Mickey ran their business in, it was covered with files. But it was much neater, with medical books stacked neatly here and there, and a row of file cabinets at the back. As Church edged in, he thought he heard a small clunk, but when he stopped to listen (prepared to run for it) he didn't hear anything else.

The note had told him to look in the bottom drawer of the third cabinet to the left. Church opened it, but all he found at first was a few medical books and a book on the keeping of parrots. Frustrated, Church felt around the bottom just in case he was missing something and found that the bottom was removable. Underneath was a small package wrapped in white paper.

Church didn't have a clue what was in the package. But it was in the right drawer and hidden in a way so that it was clear the owner didn't want it found. It had to be the right item.

Church shoved the package into his bag and sidled out of the room... only to hear a click behind him and feel a cold, metal barrel pressed to the back of his head.

"Gotcha," said the man standing behind him.

"Shit," Church muttered.

"Shit, indeed. You little thieves are just getting boring. I was expecting someone who wouldn't make such an amateur mistake, at least. You didn't even give a cursory glance before coming out of that room. Disappointing." Despite the mildly melodramatic sigh that followed this, the man sounded giddy with excitement. "Who sent an amateur like you here? Another poor man in need of a few dollars, hired through Delta's little grapevines?"

_Who the hell is Delta and what kind of name is that? _Church wondered, before pushing the thoughts away. This wasn't the time. Church didn't say anything, he just stayed perfectly still. The man behind him let out a very short laugh.

"You're a quiet one. The others started panicking immediately. Interesting."

_Probably would make sense if I was. ...Guess having a gun pointed at me isn't as scary as stabbing Dad to death._

"Stay still, unless you want a hole in your head. I'm sure you don't want that. So... what are you going to do? You could scream for help, you could try to fight, you could just have a lie down... I'm open to suggestions."

_Goddammit. Why didn't they tell me I was breaking into the house of a crazy guy? I'm really going to kill Jimmy if—when—I get back._

Church's eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape. He looked at the window he'd climbed through... and realise it had been locked. That explained the small clunk sound.

"Are you going to choose a suggestion? Or should I just hit you over the head and tie you up? ...Are you going to ignore me? So rude. That decides the matter, then."

Church felt the metal barrel of the gun lift from his head for a moment, before the man brought it down on his head.

When Church came to, his hands were tied behind his back. The ropes dug into his wrists, and it hurt like hell. He heard some humming behind him, but then it was interrupted by grumbling.

"Curses. Ran out of rope. Where'd I leave the rest of it? Did I... right, with the last one..." There was a momentary pause, then the man prodded Church with his foot. Church didn't move, mostly because he was very dizzy. "Hm."

Church heard the man's footsteps walk away from him, and a door slam. Church blinked a few times to try and get rid of the dizziness.

_Gotta get out... gotta get back..._

Church rolled over to see if the man was gone. He was.

_Can't believe he left me here, even if he thought I was unconscious. Being caught by a crazy guy has advantages, I guess..._

Church rocked back and forth a little, trying to get enough momentum to sit up. Eventually, he managed it. His feet hadn't been tied. That was probably what the man needed more rope for. Who knew. Church didn't plan to hang around and find out.

Church struggled to his feet, his arms still tightly bound behind his back. That was going to make things difficult. Especially since he was losing feeling in his hands.

Church glanced around. The doors were probably locked as well. The window was his best chance. Maybe he could break the glass with something. Church spotted his bag. It was lying on a table nearby. Church turned around and grabbed it with his slightly numb hands. He wasn't leaving it behind, not after all the shit he went through to get the stuff inside. Unless it was a choice between keeping the bag and staying alive. Then Church was going to choose staying alive.

Church bumped his shoulder against the glass and resisted the urge to swear. This was going to hurt. He needed something to toss through the window so he didn't kill himself on the glass. Church moved towards a nearby lamp...

"Ah, that's not what I wanted you to do," Church heard the man say from the doorway. Church looked up. The gun was aimed at him again. He could actually see the man this time. A red-haired man in his late twenties. Apart from the crazy smile, he looked almost normal.

_Hm. I was expecting some old guy with an evil mustache or something. _

"Get away from the window, uh... I never caught your name," the man mused.

"Fuck off, ginger."

"Oh, that's harsh. Harsh. I'm hurt. Truly." The man gestured at the window with his gun. "Step away."

Church stared at the barrel of the gun, then his gaze darted to the window.

_This is gonna fucking hurt._

Church took a couple of steps away from the window... then abruptly charged back and hurled himself right through the glass. He felt a searing pain through his right leg, and his brain flipped out. _Oh god, oh god, oh god, I've been shot, oh god!_ Then Church hit the ground hard, which hurt even more because he'd landed on broken glass.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Church groaned. He was alive, though. That was something.

"Why do they always jump through the window?" Church heard the man complain. He tried to struggle to his feet, expecting his right leg to stop him, before realising that he hadn't actually been shot. There'd been no noise. He'd just scraped his leg against the edge of the glass. On top of that, he was somehow still holding the bag.

Guess Lady Luck hadn't completely kicked him in the balls.

Church hobbled a few steps before breaking out into a strange, jerky run. He kept looking back, seeing whether the man was following him. Church knew perfectly well that if it came to a proper chase, Church wouldn't win. But every time Church looked back, he didn't see anyone.

After Church had made it a few blocks away, he stopped and snuck into another person's shed, looking for something sharp to get the rope off. After a few minutes of rubbing the rope on some kind of electric saw, Church freed his hands and returned to running, even though his leg just burned more by the minute.

_I gotta get back... Gotta get back before something else bad happens._

* * *

Church spent ten minutes straight yelling at Jimmy. After those ten minutes, Jimmy was mildly apologetic.

"I said I was sorry, alright? I didn't realise he was that, you know..." Jimmy traced circles around his ear with his index finger. "I haven't sent anyone else there, though like you said... it was something Delta sent me."

"Who the fuck is Delta?"

"A guy."

"Oh, that's specific." Church was holding a bunch of paper towels to his bleeding leg, hissing angrily every time he moved. God, that stung like a bitch. He was never jumping out of a closed window again. He wrapped a bandage around it once most of the blood had been wiped off, although the job was rather haphazard.

Jimmy was fiddling with the package that Church had stolen. He unwrapped it and took a peek inside. Church couldn't see much, only getting a glimpse of what looked like prescription medicine. Jimmy nodded and closed the package up again.

"Well, you grabbed the right thing. So you got the job done. We'll have your ID and other papers finished by tomorrow. Just lay low until then, alright?" Jimmy held the package out to him. "Will you take this up to Sigma, since you're picking up your kid anyway? He'll also need to take photos for your ID."

"Right, whatever," Church grumbled, snatching the package and heading out of the apartment.

He climbed the stairs and knocked on the door to Sigma's apartment. It only took a moment for the door to open an inch, although it was still locked with a chain from the inside. Sigma peered out at him, his eyes darting around and checking the surroundings.

"You weren't followed?" he asked quietly.

"Pretty sure I wasn't, or else that nutjob would have tried to tie me up again," Church said. "Let me in already."

Sigma unlocked the door. "I should apologise, but it pays to be safe. Make yourself at home."

"Yeah, not much of a chance. Where's Ed—Jesus Christ, my eyes."

Church hadn't actually stepped into Sigma's apartment before he left Eddie there, and thus hadn't seen that it was painted in the most eye-wateringly bright shade of orange he could imagine. Sigma had then painted over that with various murals in all the colours of the rainbow, and every piece of furniture was covered in homemade tablecloth and blankets. It looked like what would happen if Van Gogh and a crazy old lady who kept cats had bought an apartment together. Church felt like if he didn't squint his eyes would start bleeding.

"Seriously, what the hell," Church muttered.

"Blank wallpaper and surfaces have no use and I like to exercise my talents," Sigma said. "Complain if you must. But Eddie doesn't seem to have a problem with it." He pointed at the further end of the room. Eddie was sitting on the floor, fingerpainting on a spare bit of wall with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm. Paint coated his hands all the way up to the elbows and he was wearing a tie-dye bandana on his head.

Church tilted his head and watched Eddie paint what looked like... well, a blob with other blobs around it.

"I think he has talent," Sigma said, smiling a little as he tried to wipe paint off his own hands. At a direct contrast with his apartment, Sigma had a very tidy appearance. Bald and dressed in plain, black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The only part that was unusual were the eyes, which were an odd orange shade.

"Uh, great. I guess?" _What good was learning how to throw paint at walls?_ Church stepped across the room, dodging a coffee table with a patchwork blanket on it, and headed towards Eddie. Eddie heard him approach and turned around. Upon seeing Church, he immediately beamed happily and ran towards him.

"Leo! Leo! Me and Sigma made lots of paintings. I painted a cow and a bird and a monkey and a dog and—"

"Er, that's nice, Eddie." Church looked at the various blobs as Eddie pointed at them, then back at Eddie, who was jumping around and clinging to Church's shirt, getting multi-coloured hand prints all over Church's shirt in the process.

He looked happier than he'd been in months. Maybe there was some good in throwing paint at the walls.

Sigma finished wiping paint off his hands, although there were still little bits of blue and red that hadn't come off, before wandering into the bathroom and opening a cupboard. He stared into the cupboard for a few moments, hands tucked neatly behind his back, before he said, "So, Leonard... do you have any favourite colours?"

"What? Uh... blue, I guess."

"Which blue? Cobalt? Teal?"

"What the hell does it matter?"

"I need to dye your hair before we take the ID photo."

"I'm not dying my hair blue!"

"Are you sure?" Sigma questioned, holding up a bottle. "Your brother liked it. Well, he couldn't choose between blue, pink and purple."

Church raised an eyebrow, before looking down at Eddie and removing the tie-dye bandana from his head. He immediately choked. "Buh... wha... what the fuck?! What the fuck did you do to Eddie's hair?"

"He couldn't decide, so I dyed it three colours. I thought it was a good compromise."

"No! No, no, no..."

"I like it," Eddie said happily, jumping up and down so that his pink, blue and purple hair shook cheerfully.

"Guhhh." Church covered his face with one hand. "How is that supposed to make him look inconspicuous?"

"Didn't say it would. The aim is not to be recognisable." Sigma raised an eyebrow. "Were you looking at his face just then?"

"...No?"

"Precisely. So, cobalt hair?"

Church let out another annoyed grunt. "God. No. No, just... normal hair colours, dammit!"

Sigma gazed back into the bathroom cupboard before picking up another bottle. "Blond?"

"Okay, a normal colour that isn't blond. I don't want to look like a Californian surfer."

* * *

O'Malley stood on the sidewalk, gazing up at the apartment block that Jimmy lived in. He'd followed the man who had robbed his house, staying just out of sight. After all, why just stab one man in the back when he could do so much more? O'Malley would have shot him, but the gun he'd been waving around had actually been empty. He needed more bullets. O'Malley preferred knives, anyway.

Now O'Malley knew where the thief had gotten the job from. Jimmy was going to regret that.

O'Malley heard a faint yell of 'what the fuck did you do to Eddie's hair?' O'Malley recognised the thief's voice. O'Malley smiled wider before turning around and making his way back to his home.

No-one stole from O'Malley without ramifications.

* * *

Simmons had always taken a long time to make up his mind. The decision to come out to his parents had taken him two months of pondering and soul-searching. And that had been the easiest life-changing decision he'd ever made. Just deciding on his cereal took about ten minutes.

It had taken him about three seconds to decide that he wanted to strangle Grif.

He was always smoking and hammering on Simmons' door to ask why there was only two-minute noodles in the cupboard and bitching about having to walk twenty floors to get saucepans from the car even though they were only on the second floor...

Not that Sister was much better. Especially with her habit of going through the medicine cabinet for old prescription pills. But at least she remembered to put pants on before wandering around the apartment, unlike Grif. Nearly gave Simmons a heart attack. Seriously, he didn't need to see that.

There was also the fact that both siblings had a habit of barging into Simmons' room without knocking. And Simmons didn't like people doing that, especially when he was working. And he nearly always was.

For the fifth time that day, Simmons hurriedly switched off the computer screen as Grif pushed the door open.

"Hey, you ever gonna actually leave this room? How can you stay in here all day? Smells like old noodles." Grif strolled in, peering at the computer screen. "You always turn that off when I come in here... why? Looking up porn? Because I ain't gonna judge you for that. Unless it's, you know, creepy porn. Like horses or something."

"What? No! I just... Go away."

"Oh, come on. I've been here three days and you've hardly left the room. Come on, let's go get some fast food or something. I haven't eaten anything but noodles in the last three days."

"Fine. Go."

"I meant for you to come with."

"No. I'm working."

"Aw, don't be such a nerd. It'll be here when you get back."

"I don't wa—hey!"

Grif had grabbed the back of his chair and started trying to pull Simmons out.

"Come on, it's been ages since I hung around with anyone but Sister. And since you haven't left your room in three days and you seem to live on noodles... doesn't really look like you have a great social life, either."

"I like it that way! Let go of my chair, you cockbite!"

"I'll leave you alone for a week!"

Simmons considered this for a few moments. "Deal. Just give me ten minutes to wrap up my work."

"Alright, but if you're not out here in ten I take back the 'alone-for-a-week' deal."

Simmons waited for Grif to leave before switching his computer screen back on and returning to work.

_Next time, I need to pick roommates that are at least as unsocial as I am..._

* * *

"Dude. Steak is way better than chicken. What are you, nuts?" Grif took a bite of his steak sandwich. "Seriously. Much better," he mumbled through his mouthful of bread and meat.

"Pfft. Chicken is much nicer," Simmons muttered. He prodded his chicken burger. After a long time of practically living off noodles, Simmons wasn't sure if his stomach could process something as solid as chicken anymore. "And don't talk with your mouth full. It's gross."

"Yeah, whatever." Grif propped his chin on his hands, staring at Simmons. After a few minutes of silence, Grif said, "You still mad at me? Is this because of the ride over?"

"You drive like a crazy person!"

"Yeeeah... that's what Sister says. She says that the main good thing about not living in a car anymore is that I can't 'crash our house.'" Grif swallowed another huge mouthful of steak sandwich. Simmons was both amazed and disgusted at how much Grif could fit in his mouth. Mostly disgusted. "Oh man. Needed that."

Simmons grunted, taking small bites of his burger.

"You eat like a prissy old lady," Grif observed.

"Fuck you. I just haven't eaten burgers in a while."

"You're not big on cooking, are you?"

"I have no clue how. Dad said cooking was for women and when I moved out I didn't have time to learn."

"Yeah. And living off noodles is manly?"

"I didn't say he was right. Did you always agree with your dad?"

"Well, I didn't always agree with Mum... and she did have a beard so she's sorta close to having a dad..."

"...Your mother had a beard."

"Uh. No? Crap... that slipped out." Grif went bright red. "Forget I said anything."

Simmons grinned at him. "How can I forget that? Seriously? Your mother was a bearded lady?"

"Well... yeah. She kind of... joined the circus when I was thirteen."

"How can you 'kind of' join the circus?"

"Shut up."

Simmons chuckled. "Heh. Almost makes my family seem normal."

"Dude, any family is normal compared to having a missing dad and a circus freak as a mother."

"Exactly."

"What was yours like, then? If a family being weirder is such a big thing?" Grif grumbled, picking up some of his fries and dipping them in his thickshake. Simmons wrinkled his nose at Grif's eating habits.

"Uh... hard to explain."

"Oh, bullshit."

"Well, basically... they were so 'normal' that they... weren't normal? You ever seen those old-time advertisements which always had the perfect family on them? Like that."

There was a few moments of silence. Then Grif said, "Ergh, creepy."

"I know. Figured they were all robots and I was left on their doorstep or something."

"And yet you have a shelf full of books about robots."

"Yeah. Kinda weird, I guess."

Grif shrugged. "Okay, so we both have weird-ass families. Mine is still freakier, so in your face."

"Great. So this is a contest now?"

"Yeah. Winner gets the others' fries."

"You've already eaten your fries, that isn't fair... Besides, you so obviously win. I mean, my family is weird precisely because they're so 'normal.'"

"Exactly. Hand over your fries."

"I never agreed to that!"

* * *

"Oh thank god, steady land!" Simmons gasped, pushing the car door open and stumbling out. "Jesus, I thought you were gonna park up a tree or something."

"You're just making a big deal out of nothing. 'Grif, stop speeding. Grif, you drove through a red light. Grif, stop trying to drive on two wheels.' Man, you bitch something awful," Grif complained. "Jeez, I didn't get us killed. We're fine."

"Great. Great. I'm living with a crazy person. Great. I'm just gonna go barricade my door so you can't get in anymore."

Simmons heard Grif's footsteps behind him. "Or you could just get a lock on the door, y'know? Then you wouldn't have to carry wood up all twenty-something floors."

"For the last time, we're on the second fucking floor! There's probably only twenty or thirty steps!"

"That's still a lot of steps..."

"Hold that thought, I still have motion sickness..." Simmons held out his hand, trying to stop the world from moving. "Jeez, I think I'm gonna throw up..."

* * *

"Hey, Grif. Hey, bathrobe guy," Sister greeted them cheerily a couple of hours later, wandering in through the door holding a bag of what seemed to be several bottles of strange-coloured alcohol. "What'd you do today?"

"Simmons is a wuss," Grif muttered.

"Grif's insane," Simmons insisted.

"He can't hold his food after just a tiny five-minute car ride. I had to hold back his hair while he vomited!"

"Not my fault! Grif drives insanely, it's like being on a roller coaster that's just gone off the rails!"

Sister looked at the both of them. "So, it was a good day?"

Simmons groaned. "You're all insane."

"And yet you're sitting out here watching television instead of locking yourself in your room," Grif pointed out.

"Yeah, well... shut up."

Simmons had to admit, although the life-threatening car rides and subsequent loss of lunch had been horrible, the actual lunch hadn't been that bad. Maybe it was just because it had been practically the only long unnecessary conversation Simmons had had with, well, anyone for the last four years.

"Sis! Did you spend all our money on alcohol again?"

"No! This stuff was, like, half off! And, like, a third of it is actually paint thinner!"

Maybe Simmons could get used to having insane people as roommates. Although next time he was going to walk. He was not getting in that deathtrap that Grif called a car again.

* * *

"Bill... bill... junk mail..." Simmons muttered, tossing various letters on the table. Just regular everyday stuff... until he came across an envelope that had nothing but Simmons' name and address typed on it. That was a little odd.

Simmons tore the letter open carefully as Grif stumbled in, looking throughly hungover. "Oh man... Hey, did you see me drink any of Sister's paint thinner? Feels like I did."

"Nah, don't think so..."

Simmons unfolded the letter. There wasn't much on it, just a few typed sentences.

_'To Richard Simmons, also known as 2.0,_

_'Please do not send or copy onto disc any programs intended to affect our computer systems negatively. It is most unwelcome and would require us to take action against you. This action would possibly involve violence. Since you were commissioned to do so, we will not take action this time. But as the arrival of this letter indicates, we do know it was you, where you live, etc._

_'Do not do it again.'_

Printed at the bottom was some kind of Greek letter. Simmons frowned a little at the symbol. He knew that sign. There was only one hacker alias he knew of which involved a Greek letter.

"Something up, Simmons?"

Simmons shook his head, crumpling up the letter. "Nothing at all."

_Note to self. Don't do any work that affects that Delta guy from now on. Regardless of how well it pays._

* * *

When Tucker entered C.T's bar, there were fewer people than at night. Most of them were probably out pulling their stunts. There were a few people around, although the only ones Tucker recognised was C.T and Smith, who were talking at the bar. Not that Tucker could understand them, as they were conversing entirely in blargs and honks. When C.T spotted Tucker, he waved him over.

"Tucker, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"How have the hustles been?"

Tucker shrugged. "I guess it could be worse. Learnt some tricks off that Gary guy. Although he's pretty weird. If I hear one more knock-knock joke I'm gonna shoot myself in the head just to make it stop."

C.T smiled slightly. "Join the club. The jokes get old really fast. But what you learn off Gary is worth it, when you're not sitting through that 'orange you glad I didn't say banana' crap. So... things are okay but not great, is that right?"

"Yeah. I've been paying someone to let me sleep in their laundry room. Which is crap. You ever woken up after five hours next to a washing machine? Hurts like a bitch. But I can't afford to pay the rent on an apartment yet."

"I can help with that."

"Is this another 'pay me for the information' thing?"

"No. I happen to need help with a particularly rewarding con. I'm not going to lie... this is going to be one con that is a few shades of awkward, especially for a newbie con. Uh, first off... you're sixteen, right?"

"Yes?"

"Good, then this won't be breaking any laws about the age of consent. Sit down."

"Wait, wait, wait. Age of... you better not be pimping me out. I don't—"

"Let me explain. Appletini without the tini?"

"Sure."

"In answer to your question, well... You have, among all the cons who frequent this place, the unique ability to pass for both a twelve-year-old boy and, I assume in the right clothes, a twenty-something-year-old woman. It's the young face and girl-butt."

"Girl-butt?" Tucker said indignantly.

"Don't take offence."

"Dude, you just said I had a girl-butt, why wouldn't I be offended." Tucker paused. "Hang on... why is looking like both a woman and a twelve-year-old dude so important for this?"

"Well, technically we could do this job with either a woman or an older guy dressed as a woman... But it wouldn't net as much cash. Plus, there aren't any female cons around here..." Smith snorted and C.T glared at him for a moment before continuing. "None that are available to do this particular piece of work, anyway. And there's no other guys that have the ability to pass off for a girl. Or any cons that look like little kids."

"And this is important because...?"

"Badger game."

"Badger what?"

C.T sighed and rolled his eyes. "You say you've been conning since you were a kid and you've never heard of a badger game?"

Tucker shook his head. "I don't know the names of cons, man. I just do them."

"Basically, a badger game involves finding a mark, maneuvering him into a compromising position, taking photos or video and blackmailing him with them. Easy."

"And do you mean what I think you mean by 'compromising positions?'"

"Most likely."

"No way. I'm not doing it."

"Really? It'll pay a lot. You'd get forty percent of the cut, being the main ingredient in the scam as it were. The target is very wealthy. And I really mean that. Seriously loaded. Runs a chain of hotels, Smith tells me. And likes blindfolds. Blindfolds! It's like he's asking to be the mark."

"No." Tucker shook his head. "No. I ain't touching some old guy in his happy place just to get a few extra dollars. I ain't my mum, dude."

"Oh, it's easy. You just have to close your eyes and think of an old girlfriend or something."

"But I've... uhm... never had a... um..." Tucker turned bright red and shook his head. "Never mind. I'm still not doing it."

"You sure? I mean..." C.T tapped his fingers against the counter. "If you reject this particular con, which isn't a difficult one, then it's sure to get out among the others. That you're a coward."

"I'm not a coward. I just happen to not like groping old guys."

"Technically, he's not that old. Late forties."

"Fine. I don't like groping guys at all. Or girls, really..." Tucker shrugged. "Just ain't my thing."

"That's conning, kid. It's not all fun and games. Sometimes it involves doing weird things. If you don't go along with it, we'll just find someone else to do it. But getting a compromising photo that only implies adultery doesn't net as much money as a photo that implies adultery, homosexual acts and pedophilia." C.T grinned. "And if you do this, some of the other cons will know for sure that you aren't someone who will be likely to flake out in the middle of a con. That's the main problem with newbie cons, they flake out quickly. Maybe the other cons will let you help out more often with the big scams."

Tucker glared into the depths of his glass of apple juice. "Urgh... I don't want to."

"Could be worse. Once I tried posing as a member of these guys who ran a drug racket. Had to shoot a rival drug trafficker to stop myself from blowing cover. At least you're not shooting people in the face."

"Yikes. That's not a normal con, is it?"

"Nah. Most cons are physically harmless for the victims. But occasionally things go very wrong. Besides, I wasn't a con artist back then." C.T shrugged. "Anyway. The matter at hand. Forty percent."

"Screw you, I'm the main part of this con. I want sixty."

"Forty."

"Fifty-five."

"Forty."

"Fifty, then. Take it or leave it, C.T."

C.T tapped his fingers against the counter. "Forty-five. You take it or leave. That'll still earn you money in the thousands, easy. As an added bonus, when you apply for an apartment you can write that you work here. If you're unemployed and have that much money, it might look a little suspicious."

Tucker shuddered. "God. This is gonna suck. ...So, it's just a bit of groping, yeah?"

"Most likely. He can't really do much to you without realising you're male, so it wouldn't go far."

* * *

Maybe it was because he'd grown up with a prostitute for a mother, and his mother had informed Tucker of much more than he'd wanted to know in regards to the profession, but Tucker did not have any interest in sex. He really didn't understand why it was so great. And his mother didn't seem to like it, if her over-reliance on alcohol was any indication.

So he'd never really tried to envision how that sort of stuff happened, or when it would happen to him or anything. Hell, he'd never even held hands with a girl, let alone done anything near groping. But he'd never thought that the first time doing anything like that would happen like this. Never with a man, never with someone over twice his age and never when he was dressed like a woman.

Tucker glared angrily into the mirror. Maybe it was because he knew his own features so well, but he couldn't see how he passed off for a girl. Granted, he was only wearing the wig and a girly shirt, although without the fake boobs. At the moment, he was only putting the top and wig on so C.T could take a photo to be used in manufacturing a fake ID. Just in case the bartender or the mark needed non-existent proof that Tucker was 'twenty-one.'

"Why, exactly, did you have fake boobs, a wig and make-up in your closet?" Tucker questioned, tugging at the long, dark brown wig he was currently wearing.

"The situation at hand, Tucker. The situation at hand," C.T said, rummaging through a box.

Tucker continued to glare at the mirror. "Well, I don't look like a drag queen at least."

"Of course not. Then it'd be far too obvious you were male. Less is more. Now turn back so I can do the make-up."

"I swear, if this traumatises me for life you're paying for the therapy."

"No deal. Besides, you'll easily have enough to pay for your own therapy once we're done. Be thankful I'm not going to make you wear a skirt."

"Oh, whoop-de-fucking-doo. So what, they wear skirts in Scotland. They don't go around packing fake boobs," Tucker snapped.

"That's a kilt, Tucker. Not a skirt. It'll be over within two hours. Just do the usual friendly chatting, mix in some flirting..."

"I don't know how!"

"Yeah, so you're a bit prissy. Jones or Joannes or whichever one of them I'm thinking of... they'll give you a crash course in it. This man isn't especially bright, so you won't have much to worry about. And the Jones-Joannes I'm thinking off... one without the accent... he's a bit of a whorebag, he's good at it. He'll tell you how before you two get there. He'll be tracking you and the mark with the camera, so keep the man distracted. Especially when you two are going through the door of wherever he's staying, try to distract him from locking the door..."

C.T continued to talk about things Tucker should and shouldn't do. Once he was done, he took a photo of Tucker with the camera.

"Okay. What girl name are you going to be using? Since your name is Lavernius, I could just shorten it to Laverne. Reduces the chance of you slipping up."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever. You can call me Sunshine McGirlyness for all it matters. Urgh, this is gonna be so gay."

"I think there's rules that say what is gay and what isn't. A rule some of the guys had a while back was that if you called 'no homo' beforehand, then it wouldn't count." C.T checked the camera to make sure the picture had come out properly. "Just say 'no homo' inside your head, and it won't count as gay."

"Great. That makes it so much better," Tucker muttered sarcastically.

* * *

Later, C.T was serving drinks the next night when Jones or Joannes or whoever strolled in.

"How'd it go, uh, Jones?"

"My name's Joannes, but it's cool. And it went fine." Joannes grinned and handed the camera over to C.T. "Got the pictures. Intervened before that Tucker kid freaked out too much. He was totally on the edge of it. Told the guy he's gonna have to negotiate a hefty amount of money. Looking at 50,000 minimum. Probably more. He was pretty peeved about it, but there's no way he's chancing these photos getting out."

"Great. How's the new guy taking it?"

Joannes pointed upwards, in the direction of C.T's apartment. "He's washing the make-up and such off, and possibly trying to cut off his hand. That was the main point of conversation on the way back."

"Tell him not to bleed all over my sink."

"Can do." Joannes left the bar for a few minutes. When he returned, Tucker was following him, looking throughly pissed off, traumatised and, C.T noted, had forgotten to take off the girls' jeans and shoes.

"Drink," Tucker muttered.

"Appletini witho-"

"No. Goddammit, something manly. Seriously, calling 'no homo' didn't help much. It was disgusting and I see it when I close my eyes. Gimme scotch or something."

"You're sixteen."

Tucker held up the fake ID C.T had made the previous day. "This says I'm twenty-one, doesn't it?"

"It also says you're female."

"Just give me the fucking scotch."

"Okay, okay."

Tucker covered his face with his left hand. He was holding his right hand away from him. "...I'm not doing that again."

"Never say never, kid."

"Fuck that. Never doing it." Tucker attempted to toss back the shot of scotch, but choked on it. "Jesus! That's strong..."

Joannes snorted. C.T just continued washing glasses, while Tucker stared down at his shot glass.

"Jesus. I really am becoming my old lady," Tucker muttered. He prodded the shot glass, using his fingers to turn the glass around. "I got out of the house to avoid becoming like her... and where'd I end up? Giving a fucking handjob to some old, gross businessman and drinking scotch in a bar afterwards. Fucking bullshit..."

"You'll be fine," C.T told him. "Next con will be less disgusting."

Tucker shut his eyes a few times. "Fuck. I'm still seeing it when I close my eyes." He continued to stare down at his shot glass. "Screw it." He grabbed Joannes' sleeve. "Come on, we're going."

"Uh... where?"

"To pick up chicks. If I gotta see a naked person every time I close my eyes, it's gonna be a chick. Can't be any more gross than what I'm seeing right now."

"Oh. Okay!"

"Might want to change out of the girly pants first," C.T reminded Tucker.

"I'm still wearing the girls' jeans? ...fuckberries."

* * *

When Grif returned back to the apartment after a long, unexciting day of standing at a counter and serving coffee to people (his third job in three months, hopefully this time he wouldn't be fired quickly) he found Simmons standing outside his bedroom door, attempting to fasten a lock to it.

"Why are you putting a lock on your door?"

Simmons glanced in Grif's direction briefly before continuing. "Well, neither you or your sister seems to remember the whole 'stay out of my room' rule, especially when you're both high on paint thinner. So, I decided the lock was necessary."

"Man. You're sensitive about your privacy. I only ever went in there when you were in there."

"So?"

"Eh... The lengths someone will go to protect their porn collections..."

"It's not porn!" Simmons snapped. Grif snorted.

"Sure. Need any help?"

"No. I'm almost done. I can put a lock on without any help..." Simmons muttered under his breath.

"By the way..." Grif looked back at the living room, then in the kitchen. "Where's Sister?"

"Bedroom."

Grif froze momentarily. "Bedroom?She didn't have a guy with her, did she?"

Simmons tapped the screwdriver he'd been using to fix the lock against the wall thoughtfully. "Um... I think there was someone with her. I wasn't really paying atten—"

"Fuck... If there is a guy in there with her, I am going to blame you."

"I didn't do anything."

"I will blame you! Now, do you have any guns around just in case?"

* * *

It may have been five, nearing six years, since those days when Grif would spend most of his time shooing ten-year-old boys away from his kid sister... but nothing much had changed. Grif had not lost his habit of chasing Sister's various male 'friends' up trees.

Now, Grif was standing at the foot of the tree and holding a baseball bat, while Sister's latest boyfriend clung to the branches, wearing nothing but his underwear and mumbling something about his mother. Sister was standing a bit behind Grif, arms crossed and pouting. And Simmons was watching the spectacle from the apartment window.

"Don't you think you're going a bit too far with this?" Simmons asked.

"Shut up, Simmons!"

"The bathrobe guy is right! You're such a killjoy!" Sister whined.

"Well, sorry for not wanting you to have to go through a third abortion! Now go back inside!"

"Fuck you! You're not my mum, even if you look a lot like her..."

"Hey!"

"You can't tell me what to do!"

"I think there's bees up here!" Sister's boyfriend yelled.

"Well, then come back down the tree and let me hit you with this bat. It'll be over in five minutes, you'll only be half blinded at most," Grif said impatiently. "Come on, I've got better things to do!"

"I can't get back down!"

"Dex, you suck!" Sister turned around and stormed back towards the apartment.

"So. This a normal chain of events?" Simmons asked, resting his chin on his hand and staring down from the window.

"I said shut it!"

* * *

Grif did, eventually, get tired of waiting for Sister's boyfriend to climb down the tree. Especially once it became obvious that he really had no clue how. When Grif wandered back inside, Simmons was back to sitting outside his room and fiddling with the lock.

"You're weird, you know that?" Simmons told him, while fastening the small screws that held the lock to the door.

"Oh, fuck off. I'm not in the mood."

"I mean, sleeping with a guy is bad but drinking paint thinner isn't?"

"Okay, first off... she only sniffed the paint thinner," Grif protested. "And second, it's better her sniffing a little bit of paint thinner than running off to some shady club and drugging herself up on ecstasy or some shit like that. At least here I can keep an eye out on her."

Simmons shook his head. "Okay, then... Weird way of looking out for someone."

"Yeah? What would you do if your sister routinely brought guys into her room? Getting STDs and having to get so many abortions and—"

Simmons chuckled quietly. "My sister? Never happen. Same cloth as my parents, y'know? J-walking would be too 'wild' for her."

"Right, family of robots and all." Grif grinned. "Hah... I actually thought the same about you. I mean, you're so nerdy and anal. Didn't think you'd ever J-walk without worrying about breaking the law."

Simmons' ears went bright red. "Whatever." He concentrated on the lock again. "Don't you have something to do besides stand there? Besides, I still got another five days before you're allowed to annoy me again."

_What's up his butt? Is he annoyed because I said he was anal? Wuss._ Grif walked towards the bedroom he and Sister shared. He attempted to push open the door, but was instantly greeted by a scream of 'get lost, assface!' Grif quickly shut the door again.

"Okay, she's gonna be angry at me for at least tonight... I'm gonna go sleep on the sofa."

"Don't get Oreo crumbs all over it again."

* * *

Sister crept out of the bedroom towards the kitchen. She just wanted to get some water, but if Dex caught her sneaking around the house he'd think she was sneaking out to a local club again. Dex was kind of paranoid that way, even if it was often true. The kitchen light was already on, but Sister knew Dex wasn't in there because she could hear him snoring in the living room. If there was anyone in the kitchen, it was probably the Bathrobe Guy.

Sure enough, it was him. Resting against the counter and drinking coffee, in his maroon pyjamas and bathrobe.

"Why are you awake?" Sister asked curiously.

"I don't go to sleep until late. It's easier to get work done at night," he mumbled into his coffee cup. Guess that made sense. A lot of things were easier to do at night. Night was a good time to do things. Although Sister wouldn't consider work one of those things, since the night was for parties, sleeping and fucking, not boring things like work.

"Okay. I'm just getting a drink."

"You're not drinking paint thinner again?"

"Sniffing, not drinking. And not now. Not a paint thinner night. It's more of a pot night, but I don't have any around, so..." Sister trailed off. After a few minutes of quiet, punctuated only by the sounds of both of them drinking either coffee or water, Bathrobe Guy spoke up.

"Out of curiosity... how much crazy stuff do you do? I'm sorry, it's just... all that stuff is kind of a weird concept to me."

"Is this because you had a robot family? Did your dad have, like, metal plating and lights and stuff?" Sister asked. Bathrobe Guy opened and shut his mouth soundlessly a few times before shaking his head.

"Uh. Never mind that."

"Aw, but I want to know. Having a robot mum or dad would be awesome. A robot dad, especially. I mean, I never had a dad, but on television they always did things like flying kites with their kids... Although me and Dex tried that once, it was super boring... Uh. What were we talking about?"

"You doing crazy stuff."

"I don't do that much... Grif just makes a big deal about it. He's so anal about that stuff. It's just paint thinner. And pot. Maybe a little bit of ecstasy, and I did try to overdose on aspirin once. And once I chewed on something that looked like an undersea cucumber. Just everyday stuff, you know."

"Yeah. Everyday stuff. Right." Bathrobe Guy drained the rest of his coffee. "Sounds like Grif's just worried about you."

Sister rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well... he's too worried!"

"Better than not being worried enough. Or being concerned about nothing but how well you're doing on the sports team or your grades or about whatever uptight bland girl they're making you date."

_Okay, I have no idea what he's talking about. I mean, Dex never made me date any kind of girl. Except for that one time when he said he'd prefer it if I did since girls can't get me pregnant. I don't think they can, anyhow._

"Girls can't get other girls pregnant, right?" Sister asked. Bathrobe Guy just stared at her for a few moments.

"No?"

"Oh, okay. Cool."

Bathrobe Guy rinsed the coffee cup out with water. "Well... Guess it's just me, but... I wouldn't do that kind of stuff."

"But it's fun..."

"I'm sure it is. It's just..." Bathrobe Guy hesitated. "Nah, I don't want to get pushy."

"But... but now I'm curious! That's no fair... You gotta say what you were gonna say."

"Oh, well... it's just... A lot of those drugs make people go wrinkly and yellow really early on. So, you'd look eighty when you're twenty-five. And I just think that'd be a waste on you, especially with the exotic good looks." Bathrobe Guy shrugged. "Just my opinion."

"Yeah, I do look pretty awesome." Sister frowned. "So I'll get wrinkly and old before I'm twenty-five? That's, like... only fifteen years away."

"I'd say it's closer to ten..."

"Ew! I mean, old people are gross. Like, really gross. Like dried fruit. I don't want to be a piece of dried fruit." Sister continued to frown down at her glass of water. "Hm."

_I don't want to look like one of those dried up raisins... Maybe if I just cut down on some of the drugs. Not all of them, but... maybe stop with the weirder ones._

"Hey, um... Bathrobe Guy? Thanks for telling me all that."

"It's Simmons, actually. But no problem." Simmons smiled slightly. "Just trying to help."

* * *

"Huh. Paint thinner is gone." Grif raised his voice. "Hey, Sister! You didn't use all the paint thinner that quickly, did you?"

"Nah. I just threw it out," Sister shouted from the living room. "That's fine, right?"

"Yeah." Grif shut the cupboard where the paint thinner had previously been stored. "Hm. Weird."

_Can't remember Sister ever throwing anything like that out before. Not that I'm complaining or anything..._

Simmons was in the kitchen, waiting for his two-minute noodles to finish cooking. Grif wandered in and prodded him.

"Hey, Sister's acting weird. Wouldn't know why, would you?"

"Not a clue," Simmons replied. "I mean, she was wandering around the kitchen last night, but we didn't talk about much. Just some stuff about eighty-year-old fruit, I dunno."

"Okay?"

"Want some noodles?"

"Nah, stomach's gonna implode if I keep eating them. Noodles ain't a breakfast food, man. Move over, I'll make something."

"I already started making these!"

"They're just two-minute noodles, you've only been standing here for thirty seconds. Weirdo."

"Dumbass."

* * *

Everyone was acting strange. Even if Caboose was asleep most of the time, he could tell that much.

His mama and his stepdaddy kept coming in to see him. The first time they'd arrived, Mama had tried to hug him but had stopped because she probably would have knocked one of the tubes that were stuck in him. Papa had tried to talk to him, but Caboose didn't understand it. After a while, both his parents just sat down and didn't say anything.

That was not the weird thing. The smiles were the weird thing. They were not proper smiles. They were the fake ones that people wore when they were sad or angry but pretending to be happy. Caboose's old fifth-grade teacher had worn that smile.

Why did his parents have fake smiles? Caboose would have thought that they would be happy that he hadn't been killed. Lots of people got killed when they hit a tree that hard. Caboose thought he must have been lucky, or had a really hard head or something. He was alive and he would probably get better. People get better in hospitals. So why were his parents so depressed?

Mama said something. Even though the noise shook Caboose out of his very slow-moving thoughts, he didn't actually understand. It was just noises to him. Caboose nodded anyway, although that turned out to be a bad idea. His head hurt more when he did that.

_Maybe Mama and all the other people were just speaking a foreign language? Did the country change the language it spoke while I was asleep? No, that was silly._

Mama and Papa kept sharing looks. Very worried and sad looks. Which was kind of weird. If they wanted to talk about something without Caboose knowing, they could just talk. It was not like he'd be able to understand it.

None of Caboose's sisters had visited. Maybe they were really, really busy. A lot of them had school and the older ones had work and had to take care of their own kids. But Caboose had been in there for a long time. Wouldn't one of them have been able to visit? Maybe it hadn't been a long time. Maybe it just felt like a long time because he'd been sleeping and because clocks no longer made sense to him.

Caboose decided it didn't really matter. He was asleep most of the time, anyway. That meant he didn't have to think about it.

* * *

"Keep your eyes open while I do this." Sheila attempted to communicate to Caboose using her hands. After a few tries, he seemed to understand. The next time Sheila tried shining a light into Caboose's eyes, he didn't shut his eyes and whine. Sheila studied his eyes carefully. One of the pupils wasn't dilating properly. Sheila wasn't surprised, since the pupil had been blown when Caboose was first brought in. She was merely checking for improvements.

Caboose's stepfather was sitting in the corner, arms crossed. He was watching carefully, as if to make sure Sheila was doing everything exactly right. Not that he would likely know if Sheila was doing something wrong. Normally, Caboose's mother would be here as well. But she couldn't stay there all the time, not with so many other children at home and another baby on the way.

"Alright. Lift your left arm. Good. And now your right..."

Caboose had had trouble moving his left arm at first. It seemed he was gaining more feeling there, however. He could at least lift it now, although he was more clumsy with it and accidentally knocked the IV over once. That had been a little messy.

"Can you say words, Caboose?" Sheila asked slowly, making talking gestures with her hands.

"Sheila?"

"Yes, that's my name. Is that all you can say?"

"Sh...She. Lah." He followed this with a lot of noise that was clearly meant to be conversation but didn't make any sense, typical of patients with aphasia.

Sheila sighed, tucking the light back into her pocket. "...Get some sleep, Mr. Caboose."

Caboose looked up at her, then his eyes traveled to his stepfather. He pointed at him, then at the ground.

"Yes, your father can stay. I just need to have a word with him for a moment." Sheila accompanied her words with motions of nodding and pointing at her watch, among other things. Caboose nodded and settled back on his pillow. "Sir, if I could speak to you outside..."

One of the more difficult portions of Sheila's job was trying to explain to relatives of the patient what was wrong. Especially when Sheila couldn't use much medical jargon in doing so. Or at least not without explaining what terms like 'aphasia' and 'cerebral hypoxia' meant. And the stepfather's medical knowledge seemed to be comprised entirely of what he had learnt from sport magazines.

"So... all that 'not understanding English' stuff. That's temporary, right?" he asked. The man kept glancing back into Caboose's room nervously. "It's definitely temporary, right? I need something good to say to Margie."

"His brain is still swollen from the collision, but that should improve soon. After that, patients generally reacquire some of their speech recognition or ability. He will most likely need a speech therapist to help him improve further. There is a very large chance that he will carry some residual effects for the rest of his life, but in most cases patients get well enough to communicate understandably."

"And he won't have the tubey things sticking out of his head?"

"The catheter is there to help judge and control intracranial pressure. It will not be attached for an extended amount of time."

The stepfather's expression brightened a little. "So... he'll be okay? Apart from just a couple of little things with his language, he'll be fine?"

Sheila tapped her pen against her chart, the only sign of nervousness she let slip through. Talking to relatives was always difficult, especially when it came to informing them of bad news. Even just possible bad news.

"We can't be sure until we can subject him to more tests. But there will most likely be more problems." Sheila tapped her pen against the chart again. "Judging by his reaction to gestures, he seems receptive towards body language... But we can't rule out other deficits until we've carried out more tests, which Mr. Caboose is not in any condition to manage yet. There will almost certainly be some complications."

He looked back through the glass screen. What little of the man's face that Sheila could see through his beard looked apprehensive.

"But he'll still be the same kid, right? He'll still be Michael, won't he?"

Sheila didn't hesitate to say yes. Technically, he still would be. Even though she knew what the man really meant... As to whether her patient would still be the same person in an emotional sense... Sheila couldn't guarantee he would. But it was always difficult to say that.

* * *

It felt like a really long time before Sheila removed all the itchy tubes from Caboose's head and arms. Caboose was happy to not have them stuck inside any more. They had itched and Caboose had been forbidden to scratch them. He was still not allowed to scratch there, but it didn't itch as much.

Sheila and the other people who often checked the beeping things moved him into a different room. A room where everything was less noisy. There were less beeping monitors, just like there were less tubes stuck into Caboose. As Sheila wheeled Caboose in on the wheelchair they had placed him in, Caboose enjoyed the small fact that he was actually moving. Sort of. The seat he was sitting on was moving, at least.

Caboose wondered if he could still walk. He could not think of any reason why he wouldn't be able to. His legs didn't hurt like other parts of him. Although, looking down, his legs looked skinnier. But that was probably because they hadn't let him eat in ages. As Sheila wheeled him up next to the bed, Caboose waved his hands around.

_Being wheeled around is kind of fun... but I want to try walking._

Caboose made walking motions with his hands, then pointed at himself. Sheila looked reluctant. She didn't seem to want him to try. Caboose widened his eyes and pouted, like he always did when Mama was angry at him or when he was trying to steal cookies out of the cookie jar.

Sheila sighed and raised a finger. One try. She wheeled the chair around again, so that Caboose had space in front of him, and motioned for him to stay still. She left the room and returned with one of those walking stands that old people sometimes used. She placed it in front of him. Caboose reached out and grabbed the stand, although his left arm didn't want to hold on as tight. Caboose attempted to pull himself out of the wheelchair. It was hard. But after a few long moments of effort, Caboose managed to pull himself out.

He almost fell over instantly, since his legs didn't want to hold at first. Sheila stopped him from falling, reaching out her hands and steadying him. She was very strong, especially for a woman. She was also, Caboose noticed, quite tall. She only stood a couple of inches shorter than him, while most girls were at least a foot shorter if not more. Caboose wondered idly if that was a requirement for being a doctor. Probably not. Most other doctors he had seen were smaller.

After a few moments, Sheila let go. Caboose had to rest heavily on thewalking stand, but he was on his feet. Caboose smiled, looking around. He could stand, he could stand. And then Caboose looked at the glass screen that was part of the wall between him and the busier part of the hospital.

Immediately Caboose screamed. He'd seen something through the glass screen. Something weird and white and funny shaped. Sort of human-shaped, but... not right. See-through and with deep shadows under the eyes. Caboose attempted to back away from the glass screen and almost fell over, again saved by Sheila. Caboose pointed at the screen, and voiced the conclusion that made sense most in his head. He knew the word for it.

"Ghost! Ghoooost!" Caboose shrieked. Or at least, that was what he meant to say. He didn't understand his own words when they came out of his mouth, even though they had made sense in his head. The ghost raised an arm and pointed at him, too. It's mouth moved, but no noise came out.

Some of the people on the outside of the glass screen had jumped when Caboose had screamed. Sheila hadn't. She'd looked at the glass screen, then back at Caboose. She turned him away from the screen and guided him towards the bed. Once Caboose was lying down, he looked at the glass screen again. The thing was gone. It had to be a ghost, what else could it be?

Caboose tried to stay still, since Sheila was trying to put a tube back in his arm. But he was scared now. The hospital was haunted. Of course it was, lots of people died in hospitals. But the more Caboose thought about the white creature that had stared back at him, he realised that it looked strangely familiar. And it had copied him... But...

A mirror. He needed a mirror. That was hard to tell Sheila with his hands, especially since he could only use one. Sheila looked confused when Caboose tried.

"Mirror... Mirror... Need," Caboose attempted to say. It didn't make sense when it came out of his mouth. But Sheila stopped looking confused. She raised an eyebrow. Was he sure? Am I sure? Caboose wasn't... But there was something in the back of his head telling him that he needed the mirror to know if he'd really seen a ghost or not. Sheila eventually walked away and came back with a small, handheld mirror. She handed it to Caboose and Caboose stared into it.

At first he thought the ghost was there and staring back. But it wasn't see-through anymore. It was pale like a dead person, it had no hair and the head was a weird shape... maybe it looked that way because of all the fresh, red scars that were there. The ghost's face looked too hollow, the eyes looked too big and the shadows beneath them were too dark. But it blinked when Caboose did. When Caboose raised his hand, it raised his hand. Caboose felt his head, even though Sheila moved forward to try and stop him. Caboose felt scars there. The ghost in the mirror was touching his scars, too.

Caboose didn't scream this time. But he had to fling the mirror away. Fling it away and cover his eyes so he wouldn't have to stare at the ghostly monster that was his own reflection.

He heard Sheila move beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. Caboose peered through his fingers. How could Sheila look at him when he looked like a ghost monster? No wonder his parents always looked so sad and nervous when they were around him. It made more sense now.

Caboose reached up and gripped Sheila's hand. It was warm and comforting. And Caboose really needed that right now.

* * *

Donut didn't quite know how to tell his mothers he was thinking of moving out. But if he had to break it to one of his parents first, he'd rather tell Mama Liz. Maybe because Mama Liz was more relaxed about that kind of thing. But also because Mama Julie was in a phenomenally bad mood due to indigestion, and when she was that grumpy she'd explode if one did so much as move the toothpaste. Let alone propose moving to another state.

Mama Liz looked over the top of the thick book she was reading. Probably one of her fluffy romance novels, although it was a lot bigger than most of those. And Mama Liz had been reading it with a more depressed expression than usual, but maybe she was just at a sad part of the novel. Donut knew the sad parts always made him sniffle.

"Can't you move somewhere closer?" she asked. "I mean, the next state? Really?"

"It's not super far. I mean, yeah... it's in another state... But it's close to the border," Donut explained. "Close-ish, anyway. And, well... I kinda want to see some other places. And there is a great nightlife over there and I love all those lights and fruity cocktails..."

"Uh, don't hear Mama Julie hear you say that. That was the deal, you can drink the coconut-flavoured alcohol I keep at the back of the shelf as long as you don't tell her about it." Mama Liz returned to turning the pages of her book. "She'll throw a fit."

"Right." Kind of unfair, Donut thought, considering how much alcohol Mama Julie drank. Although she mostly drunk scotch and whiskey and all those drinks that Donut thought tasted gross. But Mama Julie was a stickler to the rules, especially concerning underage drinking.

"I'm sure there's closer cities that have a lot of places with fruity cocktails..."

"Yeah, but there were also some classes on interior design there, and the interior design courses around here suck. They don't know the difference between amaranth and cerise..."

"Uhm..." Mama Liz raised an eyebrow. "Difference between... what?"

"Amaranth and cerise! They're shades of red, Mama."

"Oh! Right, they're the dark shades of red? Like maroon, right?"

"Never mind. Also, I'm hoping there will be guys that... you know, I can hit on without them completely freaking out. Or taking my clothes and making me walk home in my underwear. Again." Donut shuddered at the memory. Why had he chosen to wear Hello Kitty underwear that day? Why?

"Hm." Mama Liz lowered her book. "You sure, crumbcake? Can you handle moving that far? You're still so young..."

"I'm eighteen!"

"Right. I just forget sometimes. We've only had you for eleven. That is not enough time!"

"I'll visit loads. I'm not going to hide in a cave or anything." Donut promised.

"I know, crumb. If you tried to live in a cave you'd go mental before a day had gone by. Partly because of the lack of lace and nice colours."

"Liz! Where's the toothpaste? Did you move it again?" Mama Julie shouted from the bathroom. Mama Liz winced and Donut instinctively edged away from the direction of the shout.

"Nuts. You're not moving out right away, are you?"

"Well, no. Not until after graduation at least... "

"Then... Wait until Ju-Ju's feeling a bit better to tell her. You know what she's like. Iffy about things changing and all."

"Yeah... I'm kinda scared at telling her now. I think she'd explode," Donut admitted. "Not in the good way, like pinatas. More like in the cold but angry way... Like snowballs with firecrackers in them..."

* * *

_I never realised how much stuff I had..._

Donut rummaged underneath his bed, searching for his box of Chantilly lace. He thought it might be nice to make some curtains with that lace on it, but he hadn't actually seen the box in forever...

_How am I gonna drag all this stuff to another state?_

"Come on, where are you..." Donut felt around under his bed, feet waving around in the air.

"What are you doing?" Donut heard Mama Julie say. He heard her enter the room and sit down on the bed. "Are you looking for something?"

"Box of chantilly lace."

"That's in your cupboard. Next to that box of persimmon-coloured fabric you never used.."

"Ohhhhh. Thanks, Mama."

"Hn."

Donut crawled out from under the bed. "Uh... Are you still feeling sick?"

"Yes. Nothing to worry about... In a rare violation of common sense I ate too much of your mother's 'special' chili."

Donut shuddered. Mama Liz wasn't a bad cook, exactly... She just loved making very spicy food, even concerning foods that weren't normally spicy. Her 'special' chili was inhumanely strong, to the point that Donut believed it could probably stand up by itself, were he to check by tipping it out on a flat surface.

"Okay..."

_Still afraid of telling her. Maybe I should ask Mama Liz not to cook anything too spicy for a while. That'll make Mama Julie less grumpy. Although getting Mama Liz not to cook spicy foods is next to impossible._

_Maybe I could make cake with a message on it or something. Cake works... Why are all my solutions food-centered? ...Man, this would be easier if they had greeting cards for this sort of thing..._


	54. Flashback: Reasoning

**Flashback:**

**Side Story - Reasoning**

The first time O'Malley killed something, he was only four.

Of course, it was nothing huge. It was just a beetle that he found under his bed. It'd been a complete accident. O'Malley had just been sitting on the floor, holding it between his fingers and watching the legs wave around in the air frantically. And then a few moments after that... smoosh.

"Mamaaaaaa!"

His mother had been sitting on the couch, reading a magazine. She vaguely acknowledged her son tugging on her dress, but didn't look up.

"Mama! Mama! I finded a beetle! And it was making clicky noises, it was all, clicky clicky clicky! And then I picked it up and it was all swish and then I was holding it between my fingers and it was all swish and then—"

"Darling, your mother is trying to concentrate on something."

"But I can't put the beetle back togetheeeeeer! It exploded! How do I put it back together?"

His mother blinked, then looked down at him over her magazine. She had a miniature freak out once she realised O'Malley had been tugging on her dress with hands that were covered in beetle guts, but once that freakout was over, she immediately dragged O'Malley to the bathroom to help him wash his hands.

"Hands under the water, okay?"

O'Malley put his hands behind his back. "But they have pieces of the beetle on them, and you need allllll the pieces to put him back together again."

"Look, sweetie... you can't put a beetle back together."

"Why not?"

"Because... look, wash your hands first." When O'Malley continued to hide his hands behind his back, his mother started singing. "It's fun to wash your hands, and I know you understand, so washy washy clean, scrub scrub!" She gently tugged his arms towards the sink, started helping him wash the gunk off. "We start by washing palm to palm, between each finger we must rub..."

"Now the back of the hands, it's such a simple plan..." O'Malley chimed in. He knew the hand-washing song by heart, his mother had been singing it to him for years.

"So washy washy clean, scrub scrub," they both sang together.

Once they had gone through the entire song, and his hands were nice and clean, O'Malley's mother sat him down on the couch to explain why it was impossible to put a beetle back together.

"You see, sweetie... you know how once you accidentally tore your teddy bear and the nanny stitched it back up?"

O'Malley nodded seriously.

"Well, that is because teddies only have fluff inside. Fluff is something that can be found easily and put back inside easy. You don't have to be an expert to sew up a teddy bear. Because all teddy bears need is fluff. But living people have lots of squishy parts on the inside. Like the heart and brain. They all need to be connected and working for living things to move and breathe and do all the fun things. But when a living thing is smooshed, then the smooshed parts stop working and the unsmooshed parts can't work without the rest."

"And then what?"

"And then they stop working for good. They die. Like Grandpa."

"Grandpa was smooshed?" O'Malley asked, looking alarmed.

"Well, not exactly. But parts of him stopped working. Smooshing just makes it happen faster."

"So... if one thing stops working, I will not work?" O'Malley asked, eyes wide.

"Weeeeeell, not exactly. It doesn't happen to kids as much as grandpas. As long as they wash their hands and don't get nasty germs from smooshed bugs! Nasty germs sometimes make parts stop working. But sometimes people can be fixed if they get a bit smooshed. Doctors can fix people."

"Aren't you a doctor, mama?"

"No, I'm a nurse. It's different. Besides, not even doctors can fix bugs, because they're sooooo tiny that we can't find a small enough needle to sow them up with." His mother nudged him. "Now go and play in your room, your mother wants to finish her magazine before your father gets home."

* * *

A few days later, O'Malley found another beetle. This time, he squished it on purpose because he wanted to see all the squishy insides. He couldn't see them, though. He just saw gunk. He thought maybe he wasn't smooshing them right, so for the next few months he kept trying to squish bugs. He could never really see the insides that his mother talked about. He didn't ask her about it again, instead just making sure he washed his hands every time he smooshed a bug so she wouldn't get angry.

Eventually, he gave up trying to see beetle insides and forgot about it until he was about seven years old, when he was wandering around outside. He wasn't really supposed to wander out of the house without the nanny's permission, but she had told him it was too hot to go outside without a hat and since he'd lost his hat he wasn't allowed to go outside. And he had decided that it was a stupid rule.

It wasn't the first time he'd run off from the nanny. The nanny would complain to his parents, but they would dismiss it as 'boyish shenanigans.'

He'd been running around the street, dragging his pink teddy bear along with him, when he found a dead bird. One that had probably hit the electrical wires above. O'Malley tilted his head and prodded it with his foot, before making a mock gasp of shock and holding his teddy bear near it.

"Oh no! The birdie got shocked! It needs to go to hospital and see Dr. Strawberry!" he said, changing his voice to sound more gruff and bear-like. "Into the ambulance! Whooooooo, whooooooo!" He picked up the dead, stiff bird and started running back to the house, waving his teddy bear around like an aeroplane. "Zoom zoom, whooooooo!"

* * *

His nanny hadn't taken the fact that he brought a dead bird into the house well. She immediately took it from him and threw it in the bin, before locking him inside his room. O'Malley hadn't been happy about it. He'd looked forward to pretending he and his teddy were doctors. And if he could never see an insect's guts because they were tiny, he'd be able to see the ones a bird had. They would have been bigger.

Stupid nanny ruining his interests.

O'Malley couldn't find another dead bird. And he couldn't catch a live one. Too difficult. But while he'd been confined to his room, he'd been looking out the window. He'd seen the cat that lived next door. An old, fat, cranky cat that always scratched him when he went near it.

No-one would miss a nasty cat like that.

Catching it had been hard, because it kept scratching him. He'd had to hide the cat in the garden shed overnight before going inside, and even then his mother had been concerned with the amount of scratches he had on his arms. Stupid cat.

But kitty insides were much more interesting than bug insides. He could actually see the bits and pieces. It was awesome. Much more interesting than the medical books his mother had. O'Malley had looked at the pictures in those and it had been boring. Especially boring when compared to real insides.

One cat just wasn't enough to satisfy the little boy's curiosity about animal insides. About how they worked and which parts you could smoosh without the animal dying. He found a lot of animals over the next couple of months. That's how long he lasted before someone found out. His parents didn't use the garden shed except for stashing random stuff that they wanted out of the way. But once he stayed in there too long and the nanny came to check on him.

* * *

"Dr. Strawberry, you may make the incision into the smooshy pink thing over there," O'Malley said, waving the teddy bear around, while holding the knife in the other hand. "And then we will—"

"Are you in there?"

O'Malley yelped a little at the interruption, and the hammering on the wooden door. "I'll be out in a minute! I was just looking for something! I left my teddy in here!" Which was true, sometimes O'Malley left his teddy bear in there to 'guard the patients.'

"Why would you leave it in the shed?"

O'Malley only had enough time to shove his newest patient, a raccoon, in a box before the shed door swung open.

"You wander off so much... I should be getting paid for every time I have to find you," she muttered under her breath. Then she frowned, wrinkled her nose. "Smells awful in here."

"Yes, it does. So we should go now." O'Malley tugged on her hand. "I don't like it in here, I was just finding my teddy bear."

The nanny didn't move. "Smells... rotten." Her eyes narrowed. "You didn't bring in another dead bird, did you?"

"No," O'Malley said truthfully. "Can we leave now?"

It was dark in the shed. Which was probably why it took the nanny a while to notice the bloodstains. And the bloodstains, unfortunately, led straight to the box O'Malley kept his 'patients' in. A box that he hadn't really cleaned out since he started on animals.

There was a lot of screaming. O'Malley thought the nanny was being kind of a wuss about it, honestly. It was just a few dead animals. Even if a couple of them weren't really recognisable as cats anymore. Still. No different from carving up a turkey.

The nanny immediately quit after that, but not before telling O'Malley's parents all about it. Telling them that their kid needed help. They did listen to her. But afterwards, once she had left for good, they asked O'Malley why he had all the dead animals in the first place.

O'Malley lied and said they were already dead, and that he was trying to put them back together again. His parents believed him. Or at least they pretended to. It hurt a lot less to dismiss O'Malley's behavior as more 'boyish shenanigans' instead of admitting that he liked to cut apart animals for funsies. They never told anyone else, just made him promise not to do it again.

* * *

O'Malley was a bit more discreet after that. And it didn't take too long for O'Malley to get bored with animals. People were much more interesting. Which was why, when he got older, O'Malley became a surgeon.

Later on, Doc would express a disbelief that he could ever apply to be a surgeon without wanting to help people. But it wasn't that. It wasn't a desire to hurt people, either. It was just because O'Malley loved seeing how people ticked. He liked studying the nuts and bolts of the full, fleshy machine. When he was a proper, legal surgeon, he never killed a patient on purpose. After all, that'd be incredibly stupid. They kept records, they'd get suspicious if too many people died when he worked. If he kept killing people, they wouldn't let him work on the more interesting cases. If they let him continue being a surgeon at all.

So, when on the job, he stayed a good, professional surgeon. Putting on a likable, charming personality was easy in those days. No-one suspected a thing. There was no reason to, at first. He wasn't doing anything illegal all through college and med school. When he became a surgeon, it turned out he was pretty good at it. For a couple of years, it was all well and good.

But newbie surgeons didn't get the most interesting operations. Sometimes he got to watch, sure, but it wasn't quite the same. Being a surgeon was an interesting job and he wouldn't trade it for any other occupation. But he got antsy. He got bored. And when O'Malley got bored, his mind immediately started working on things that would make him less bored.

Cutting people apart was the thing he found most interesting, and the restrictions on how much he could cut was what annoyed him most. Was it really that much of a surprise that he turned to cutting apart other people? Cutting apart healthy strangers?

The idea came into his head a long time before he went through with it. Just a year after he started work, just after his internship ended. It was just one stray thought. O'Malley had been standing outside the operating room, washing his hands and frustrated that he was stuck on another appendectomy. Just cutting off a useless piece of flesh. Cutting exactly where they told him.

And there was just that one stray thought.

_They wouldn't be able to tell me where to cut if I found someone outside the hospital and..._ The thought didn't even really finish before O'Malley interrupted the thought with: _Don't think about that. It's a stupid idea._ He returned to washing his hands.

The thought never really left him, though. Any time he got bored, that thought returned. The thought of just wandering into the nastier part of the city, the part filled with the homeless and criminals. The areas filled with the junk of human society. People that wouldn't be missed. Just finding someone, dumping them in the trunk of his car, dragging them home and—

He entertained the thought for eighteen months before going through with it.

* * *

It started with just random homeless people. They were usually just sleeping in the gutters, and the majority of them were probably diseased or starving, not enough strength to really put up a struggle. He'd always grab them at night, obviously. If anyone ever saw him bundling a homeless man or woman into the trunk of his car, they never reported it. Not that O'Malley was aware of, anyway.

At first it was just the fascination with the body. With the nuts and bolts. It started like that. The first person he kidnapped was an old man. Beard covering the majority of his face, dressed in rags. Typical aging hobo.

He'd actually used anesthetic for him. He hadn't been interested in the pain. He'd just wanted to really have a proper look at all the organs. All of them, not just the ones other people told him to cut. And this hobo had some funky stuff going on in his stomach. It was really quite fascinating.

The second and third ones had gone the same way. Out for the entire procedure. They'd died quietly in their sleep, even if it was because someone had been shoving a scalpel into them while they were napping.

The fourth one would have been the same, except that O'Malley had been low on anesthetic (which he'd pilfered from the hospital to begin with) and taken a bit too long with cutting apart their kidneys. They'd woken up in the middle of it, just as O'Malley was reflecting on the fact that this person was probably a heavy smoker. They'd started screaming, writhing around, making a big mess of things before O'Malley quickly slashed their throat to shut them up.

He regretted it immediately afterwards. Because when the man under the knife started screaming... this wave of exhilaration just crashed through O'Malley. It'd been the most thrilled about anything that O'Malley had felt in his life. Just a massive surge of pure excitement.

He never used anesthetic again, although he remembered to muffle them before he started. No two people reacted quite the same to the pain. It was so fascinating that O'Malley wondered countless times why he had waited so long to start killing properly.

Since he wasn't bound by hospital rules, he didn't have to wear plastic gloves. He could feel the texture of the organs and the feel of the liquids without any plastic blocking the sensations. But even so, he always scrubbed his hands clean before and afterwards. Old habits die hard, and that'd been a habit ever since he was a little kid. Washy washy clean, scrub scrub.

It went on for many years. Homeless people and random criminals weren't enough, once he became interested in the reactions. He found victims all over the place. All of them different. It was more interesting when the victims didn't have beard covering their faces. It was easier to see their expressions that way.

Countless people went under his knife. Among the people he tried to kill and torture, only two ever escaped on the outside, the first of whom was Church. The second one led to him eventually getting found out, though it had really been a streak of bad luck. What were the odds that he and his escaped victim shopped at the same store?

When he was finally caught, more than twenty years after he started, he was thrown in prison. When he was first arrested, he was interrogated as to why he killed so many people. Trying to figure out if there was a reason behind all the killing. Barring the fact that most of the early victims were homeless, none of his victims really had anything in common. They wanted to know why he did it.

Fact was, it was just interesting. It was exciting. It was fun. There was no other reason.


	55. Chapter 51: Five Years Later

**Chapter Fifty-One: Five Years Later**

"I got dibs on you, boy. You're a Red now."

Sarge circled the new inmate, as was his tradition. Intimidation inspires loyalty, he always said. Worked with the men back in the army. Works just as well in prison. Intimidate them by yelling and shooting the more useless members of the team. Especially if that member is Grif. He had to hand it to the new Red, though. Didn't look intimidated at all. Just stared back with a bored expression.

"Keep on my good side and you'll do fine in here. Besides, we outnumber the Blues by one now! Grif counts as a minus, so we're on a proper equal footing where we can kick their ass properly! What do you say to that, eh?"

_"Yes. Playing violent sports with convicted murderers sounds like a completely sane idea."_

"That's right. That's the kind of can-do attitude the Reds need. I like you, Lopez."

_"I don't reciprocate."_

"You're just what this team needs. All we got so far are lazy turds and fruits concerned more with finding fabric softener than bloody and glorious victory! Okay, so the fruit's a good source of comfy laundry whenever the wife is mad enough to stop washing my clothes, but that's not the point here."

Lopez just stared back at him. Few words. Sarge liked that. Probably eager to get on with the asskicking.

"Not to worry, amigo. They'll be plenty of time to destroy your enemies. North'll take you to your cell. Comprende?"

_"I already feel like my brain is dying."_

"Glad to see we're on the same page!"

* * *

Five years after Donut had first been locked up, he'd become significantly less afraid of prison. There really wasn't much to fear when Caboose was watching his back. The few things that did scare him, such as O'Malley, had practically vanished during those five years. He saw O'Malley wandering around from time to time, but O'Malley just grinned at him and went about his business. It was creepy, but eventually Donut learnt to brush it aside. Whatever O'Malley was so happy about, it wasn't his problem.

So, prison was no longer terrifying. But sometimes it could still be annoying. For example, someone kept stealing Donut's laundry whenever he tried hanging it out to dry. It had been a problem ever since Donut managed to acquire fabric softener and started washing his own clothes, rather than throwing them back into the laundry chute, where they'd be washed with crappy ingredients that made him itchy.

Donut suspected that it was the tiny guy with the high-pitched voice who worshipped the Red flag set up in the yard. He was the only man in this prison who was smaller than Donut, and thus the only one who would fit into his clothes. But he had yet to prove it, so he was going for the next best thing. Hanging his clothes so high up that Donut himself couldn't reach them unless he was sitting on Caboose's shoulders.

"Caboose, can you stop fidgeting? I'm gonna fall off!" Donut called down as he attempted to hang up his jacket.

"My shoulders are getting itchy."

"I just need a few more moments!"

Donut placed his hands against the wall to steady himself, before returning to securing his 'clothesline' with more tape. Admittedly, taping flimsy string to a wall was not the most efficient clothesline. But it was all he had, and even that had taken a while to find.

"Turn a little to the left."

"Uh... My left or your left?"

"We're facing the same... Your left."

Caboose turned carefully. Last time he had turned too fast and Donut had fallen off his shoulders. He was humming a song under his breath, looking around while Donut stuck more tape up.

"Alright... Almost done, just a couple more bits of tape..." As Donut messed around with the roll of tape he had in his hands, he heard Church's voice behind them.

"Caboose, what the hell are you doing?"

"Church!" Caboose turned around too quickly for Donut to keep his balance, and after a brief moment of flailing his arms around he fell off Caboose's shoulders and tumbled onto the pavement. "Oh. Um. That was not my fault. Donut! Are you okay? If you do not remember what happened, I can tell you. It was the wind. It blew you over."

"I think I broke something," Donut whimpered, cradling his arm. Church looked at the two of them and shook his head.

"Dumbasses... Why the hell are you doing acrobatics in the yard?"

"I was setting up a clothesline..." Donut looked upwards to see that his clothesline was still attached to the wall. "Ooh, it stuck this time."

"Yeah, that isn't gonna stop people from stealing your clothes."

Donut flexed his hand experimentally and winced as pain shot through it. "Ow. Well, it was worth a try. I think I'm gonna check with Doc, see if it's broken or sprained or something."

"He'll probably make it worse if it is," Church remarked.

"Point taken."

"Anyway. Caboose. Need your help with something. Andy stole my cigarettes and won't give them back. I tried to talk to him, but every word he says makes me want to punch him in the face."

"I can do that. I will go ask him nicely and he will be nice back and everyone will be happy."

"Right, whatever. Move it."

Once Caboose received the note and trotted off, Donut asked, "Why don't you just get Tucker to do it?"

"Caboose gets along with him for some reason. Plus, last time I got Tucker to talk to him, Andy set fire to his shoes and managed to work several insults about his mother into the conversation. And I don't want Tucker bitching about how long it took him to convince another inmate to trade shoes again. And that's just when Andy hasn't tried to make homemade explosives." Church shrugged. "If it comes to outrunning explosives, Caboose will do better than Tucker."

"Well... true..."

Tucker hadn't been much of a runner since the Miller incident. If he put too much stress on his lungs his breathing started to mess up. Not to mention he often complained about the pain and lack of painkillers. The complaints tended to increase during the games of whatever sport Sarge actually had the equipment for, although Donut strongly suspected Tucker was just trying to get out of doing anything. Not that it mattered, as the games largely consisted of Sarge abusing Grif for his laziness, Caboose accidentally punching Church somehow and everyone being really cranky by the end of it.

'Bonding exercises' never seemed like a good term for them, despite what Flowers said.

* * *

"You're unusually happy for winter."

Grif had been humming as he messed around with the plastic bags that held pruno. He paused before looking up at Simmons, who was standing at the entrance to his cell.

"Yeah. Winter's still shit, though."

"Then why the happiness?"

"Because..." Grif brandished one of the plastic bags. Unlike the usual bags of pruno, which contained orange or red liquid, the liquid inside this one was clear, if slightly oily-looking. "Ta-da! White lightning! I am gonna drink myself into a coma with this stuff. By the time I wake up, we'll be walking free. It'll be awesome."

Simmons rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you're not doing that. You'll just dissolve your insides, and then I'll have to donate mine to keep you alive. And then I'll have no organs and I'll die."

"Maybe you can replace yours with machinery."

"Don't be a dumbass."

"Fine. I won't drink myself into an organ-dissolving coma. What are you, my mother?"

"You sound like Sister."

"Shit, I do." Grif shook his head. "Jeez. Maybe I'm channeling her spirit or something. She hasn't visited in a while, come to think of it." Grif paused, counting on his fingers for a few moments. "Five or six months? I'm not sure."

"Worried?"

"Well, I wasn't before, but... Great. Fucking great," Grif sighed. "I'm gonna have to get really drunk to stop worrying now."

"She'll be fine." Simmons patted Grif on the shoulder briefly. "She's thirty-one, she's not an out-of-control teenager anymore."

"Thirty-one... Shit, I'm feeling really old now."

"And let me guess... It makes you want to get drunk to forget about it."

"You know me so well."

* * *

When Caboose returned from retrieving Church's cigarettes he was also holding a burnt, soaking jacket. Nonetheless, he looked happy.

"Did Andy set fire to you?" Donut asked, alarmed.

"He said it was a game! I didn't get too burnt when taking it off, then he would give me Church's cigarettes back." Caboose smiled happily, holding up the cigarettes. "I won! And I only burnt some of my arm! But Andy got taken to solitary because York says the 'setting people on fire' game is not allowed."

"Caboose... We've been through this. Setting people on fire is not a game," Donut said patiently. "Turn around, let me see your arm." Donut looked closely at the fresh burn on Caboose's forearm. "Does it hurt?"

"It is stingy."

"Okay, we'll go see Doc in a moment. He can't mess up a burn, right?"

"The stuff he puts on them hurts," Caboose said, edging a couple of steps back. "Can I get Margretta? I left her on my cot and I need something to hug when the stuff gets all hurty."

"Sure. Better get your spare jacket, by the way. It's freezing."

Donut followed Caboose back to his cell, as Caboose complained about how the burns ruined the fun of the 'setting people on fire' game and about how it's a good thing he knows how to take his jacket off really fast. As Caboose trotted into his cell, Donut stopped and peered further down the hall. Grif and Simmons were milling around near his cell.

"What's going on? Why you hanging around outside my cell?" Donut asked curiously, bouncing up to them. "Is it a surprise party?!"

"Why would it be a surprise party?" Simmons asked. "And no, we're not having any parties around you. I still haven't gotten the hotpants incident out of my head."

"Yeah, that was a bad idea," Donut admitted. "It's too cold for hotpants, and now I have one less pair of warmer pants."

"Not the problem, Donut."

Grif wasn't paying much attention to this exchange, instead peering at the cell next to Donut's. That cell was usually empty. There'd been an inmate in there for a few days, but he'd vanished quickly. Donut didn't know what had happened to him, though rumor was that the macaroni from the cafeteria sent him to the hospital. The macaroni had finally been taken off the menu after that for a stew, whose ingredients were unknown.

Today, however, Donut could hear someone shuffling around inside.

"New guy?" Donut asked.

"Yeah, new dude." Grif looked at Simmons and raised his eyebrow. "What're you betting?"

"What do you want?"

"Cigarettes."

"I don't smoke."

"So? You can hold unlit cigarettes without your lungs shriveling up, right?"

Donut tilted his head. "Why d'you need cigarettes?"

"We're betting on whether the new guy will last. And so what if I can hold cigarettes? I still don't have any use for them," Simmons grumbled.

"Uh, guys? Do you bet on all the newbies?" Donut pointed at himself. "What about me? Did you?"

"I had five days of pruno ingredients riding on you kicking the bucket," Grif said cheerily. "Simmons cheated, though. He tried to be all helpful to you and shit."

"Oh, thanks," Donut muttered.

"Anyway." Grif nodded in the direction of the new guy's cell. "Ten cigarettes says he doesn't die or transfer for two months. He looks tough."

"You got a deal." Simmons and Grif shook hands briefly, following it with a fist bump and what looked like a secret handshake.. Afterwards, they both wandered back into Grif's cell. Donut edged closer to the new guy's cell, eventually peering in through the bars.

The new inmate was pacing. Back and forth. Grif wasn't kidding when he said the guy looked tough. He was a Hispanic man with hair that was little more than stubble, and he had a large amount of muscle and a perpetually grumpy expression.

"You can actually do the shaved head thing and look tough," Donut said. The man looked at him, but didn't say anything. "I tried shaving my head to look tough a year after I came in, since Church and Tucker kept calling me Dye-Job. I just looked like an alien until it grew back and they still call me Dye-Job sometimes. It totally sucks. Anyway... Hi. I'm Donut." Donut held his hand out for a handshake. The other man just stared at it, and eventually Donut pulled it back. "What's up?"

"_You are the fruity one?_"

"Oh, you speak Spanish? I took Spanish classes in high school." Donut cleared his throat. "_My pencil is Donut. Bonjour._"

"_...What._"

"What?"

"_I understand English, idiot. Your Spanish is terrible._"

Donut pouted. "Now that was just rude. Besides, we all know high school Spanish is the best preparation for speaking Spanish there is. So, you living in this cell now?"

"_No. I just find that hanging out in a cell surrounded by murderers is a fun way to spend my Tuesday._"

"Yeah, playing tennis on Tuesdays does sound like fun. But what does that have to do with anything? But anyways, that makes us... cell neighbours? Yeah, that sounds nice. What's your name, neighbor?"

"_Lopez. Please leave me alone._"

"It's nice to meet you, too!"

"Donut! I lost my jacket again. And the stingy burn is stinging more..." Caboose had left his cell, clutching his stuffed pigeon tightly.

"Alright, let's go. See you later. Lopez!"

Lopez shook his head before returning to pacing his cell. As Donut dragged Caboose towards the infirmary (making sure not to tug on the burnt arm) he noticed Caboose frowning, squinting like he was trying to think harder than he normally could.

"What's wrong?"

"I think I know him. But I cannot remember where I saw him."

"Really? Maybe you've just seen someone that looks like him," Donut suggested. "I mean, I first thought I'd seen my old roommate before, but it turned out he just had a similar vibe to a serial killer I'd seen on the crime shows Mama Julie watched. Thinking on that now, I probably should have been more suspicious of him after that first impression."

"No. I have seen him before. I remember, because I remember him speaking Spaniel."

"Spanish, Caboose. It's called Spanish. Although being able to talk to spaniels would be pretty awesome. I bet they know all kinds of things we don't."


	56. Chapter 52: Hang In There, Doctor

**Chapter Fifty-Two: Hang In There, Doctor**

"That hurts," Caboose whined, flinching away from Doc.

"I know, Caboose. And I'm sorry, but if you would just stop playing the jacket game with Andy we wouldn't have to go through this every few months," Doc sighed. "I don't want to be bossy, but being set on fire is not good for your health. Now please stop squirming."

Donut was sitting in the corner, still flexing his hand and seeing if the pain had gone away yet. It hadn't. He watched Doc fiddle around with bandages and Caboose fidget and occasionally whine. Doc looked kind of nervous. Which was strange: even Doc could handle a burn. But he kept glancing at the infirmary door, and continuously shifted from foot to foot.

Looking around the room, there also seemed to be five times as many motivational posters as before. Donut gazed at a 'hang in there, kitty' poster while Doc finished tending to Caboose.

"Okay, you're done. Donut, what's wrong with you?"

"I landed on my hand. It hurts when I move it too much. Is it broken?"

"Uhhh..." Doc examined Donut's hand. "...Uh. I don't... think so. I can't really tell unless it goes all swollen and purple. Which it hasn't. So, I don't think it's broken. I can try wrapping it up if you want."

"Uh... No, if it's not broken then I think I'll be fine," Donut said quickly. He didn't want to end up having hands like Miller. Just seeing those twisted, discoloured lumps had always made Donut nauseous. Even if for some reason they seemed to cheer Caboose up. Didn't matter anymore, since Miller had been released two years ago. But even just the mental images of those hands made Donut shiver.

"Oh. Well, if you're sure," Doc said. His tone seemed flat. Now that Donut was getting a close view, Doc didn't look well at all. He seemed too thin, and there were shadows under his eyes.

"You okay, Doc? You don't look very well. Sleeping alright?" Donut asked. Doc blinked a couple of times before shaking his head and waving his hands in what was clearly meant to be a laidback, casual fashion, though it just looked like he was trying to chase away flies.

"I'm fine! I'm really, totally fine. Don't worry about it! I just get di-difficult patients sometimes, it's... it's not big deal, it's just part of the job!" he said in one of the most fake cheerful voices that Donut had ever heard.

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. I'm the doctor, right? Um, not that I want to rub the degree that I definitely have in your face or anything. Anyway." Doc gestured at Donut's hand. "Come back if it turns purple, blue or yellowish-green."

"Okay."

Donut had to drag Caboose away from staring at one of the other cat-related posters, and on the way back to the yard Caboose started talking about the cats he'd had at home.

"And then one time, Apples got stuck up a tree. And I had to climb up and get her. It was scary. And Mama did not like that, because she said I could get hurt again..." Caboose babbled. "And then Papa said I could not climb up 'the goshdarn tree because the fudging cat climbed up.' Actually, he said much ruder words, but Mama said I must never repeat them. Church says those words a lot. At me, a lot of the time. I don't think it is very nice. But that is okay. Church is still my bestest buddy."

"Right." Donut tried to stop himself from frowning. He still didn't understand why Caboose was always so loyal to Church. Most of the interaction between the two seemed to consist of Church shouting or telling him to do things. If it wasn't for Caboose's constant proclamations that Church was his best friend, then Donut would have thought that it was blackmail that kept Caboose so loyal. But whenever he asked Caboose why, the answer was always 'I do not want to talk about it.'

"...and then I had to sleep on a bench and eat trash hotdogs. It was very uncomfortable," Caboose finished.

Donut realised he had zoned out, and quickly tried to change the subject before Caboose noticed he hadn't been listening. Sure enough, in a couple of minutes they were back to talking about 'speaking Spaniel.'

* * *

"You got nothing on him?"

Tucker shrugged. "I can't understand what he's saying. What do you want me to do? I can't just spontaneously learn Spanish. Sorry, Church, but I ain't a fucking genius."

Church pushed his 'mystery stew' around with his spoon. It may have been less dangerous food than the macaroni, but Church preferred it when he actually knew what he was eating. This stew could have been rat for all he knew. It was also a weird colour... Tucker seemed to love the stuff, though.

"You gonna finish eating that?" Tucker asked, pointing his spoon at Church's food.

"'Course I'm gonna fucking eat it, now stop asking!"

"Anyhow, all I've managed to figure out is that his name is Lopez. I think. Sounded the most like a name out of the words he said." Tucker stretched his arms above his head. "I'll try to get more out of him later. Maybe take a Spanish dictionary with me or something." Tucker lowered his arms, gazing at Church's food. "You suuuuure you're gonna eat that? Because I'm really hungry. And my chest is really hurting today."

"The sympathy card doesn't work on me, you dumbass."

"Yeah, well the 'annoying-you-until-you-either-give-me-what-I-want-or-smash-me-over-the-head-with-a-tray' card does."

"Fuck!" Church glared at Tucker. "I hate you. You know that?"

"Oh, you know you love it. Now come on, hand it over."

Church gazed down at his half-eaten stew, then shoved it in Tucker's direction. Anything to stop Tucker from annoying him. Even just the threat of him playing that card was often enough.

"Tastes like victory," Tucker mumbled through his food. "And on that note... sport is gonna suck now that 'the reds' have another guy. It's painful enough as is. Might be better not to make this Lopez guy mad, he might start accidentally punching us in the face during it. You know, like Simmons did to you once."

Church rubbed his nose. "Yeah. Eh, I'm sure he's got something we can blackmail him about. We just gotta figure out what the fuck he's talking about, first."

"Maybe you can ask Simmons. I think he's of a latino persuasion. That's what Grif said."

"Yeah, well... Grif is also an idiot..."

* * *

Doc stared at the same poster that Donut had been looking at half an hour ago. It happened to be his favourite motivational poster in the room. Looking at a cat holding onto a clothesline always cheered him up. Doc really needed cheering up, these days.

It felt like everything was losing the appeal it once had to Doc. He tried flicking through the books on yoga and tai chi, but he couldn't concentrate on them. Most of the motivational posters did nothing, the hanging kitty was the only one that made him happier nowadays. Even his favourite duck-covered curtains didn't manage to cheer him up.

It was weird. Doc crossed his arms, still staring intently at the hanging kitty poster. Like it would somehow bring him inner peace. Or at least the courage to run away from this infirmary. From this job. From the red-haired inmate that often stopped by.

When the door swung open, Doc immediately turned around. He didn't want to be caught with his back towards O'Malley. Again.

"I'm impressed. You didn't try hiding this time," O'Malley said, grinning at him. Doc fidgeted. For a while, his response to anyone opening the door had been to roll under one of the cots and try to hide, just in case it was O'Malley. That hadn't worked well... Hiding under the cot had just stopped Doc from backing away once O'Malley found out he was there.

"I... I told you, I wasn't hiding," Doc muttered. "I was... looking for... something I dropped..."

"Lies don't suit you, Doc." Two steps forward. "And lying to me? I'm hurt. And I still haven't forgiven you for messing around with my pills..."

Doc took a step back. His insides squirmed a little at the mention of those pills. Over the last five years, he'd mucked around with O'Malley's medication much more than what was healthy. The strength and effect of O'Malley's medication did tend to depend on two factors. How scared Doc was of him at the time and how guilty he was about the effects of whatever drugs O'Malley was already on.

For a couple of years, Doc had settled on a particularly strong medication. Not one as bad as strong sedatives. They stopped short of transforming the person taking them into a drooling vegetable. But it had made O'Malley overly fascinated with his hands. That had worked well for Doc. Any time O'Malley had showed up at the infirmary with the intent of harassing him, Doc just had to draw O'Malley's attention to his own hands and then O'Malley would be too distracted to do anything but wiggle his fingers.

O'Malley had actually been bearable during that time. There'd been side effects that hadn't worn off even when the medication was switched. He'd gotten progressively more fidgety and nowadays couldn't seem to keep his hands still, but he'd been bearable. Unfortunately, after a while the drugs had caused O'Malley to get very sick. Mostly from fever and drug rash. Doc wasn't sure how it'd happened, but he'd been legally required to take O'Malley off those pills and told specifically to 'stop monkeying about with the medication.'

So now O'Malley was back on the same medication he'd been on five years ago, before the riot in the cafeteria. Doc had been left with guilt from the fact that if he'd kept experimenting with the medication he might have killed his patient. Doc might be terrified of O'Malley, but he didn't want to kill him...

"I said I was sorry."

"Yes, and if I said I was sorry for killing..." O'Malley paused, counting under his breath for a few seconds. "I lost count, but if I said I was sorry for killing all those people, I'm sure that would make everything better." O'Malley grinned wider and took a few more steps forward, so that he was standing just a few inches from Doc. "If apologizing made everything better, then there wouldn't be any need for prisons."

Doc averted his eyes. He tried staring at his duck-covered curtains, instead. Didn't work, especially when O'Malley reached out to grasp his face.

"I think you owe me more than an apology."

Doc tried to shake his head, but O'Malley was holding his face too firmly. Or as firmly as he could with his inability to stay still.

"It's... It's not allowed," Doc mumbled, like he had every time this occurred in the last five years. As if pointing out that inmates and staff members weren't allowed to engage in what O'Malley called fun would stop him.

"Now, do you think I'd be in here if I cared about little rules like that?" O'Malley purred.

Doc knew how this dance went. He'd weakly argue, but never properly stand up for himself because O'Malley had the innate ability to make Doc feel guilty for doing so, even though Doc knew he had every right to protest. The only break he received was that O'Malley was, due to the medication side effects, easily distracted.

Doc's hands edged into his pockets, and he felt around. Looking for something distracting enough. But Doc's brain never worked well when O'Malley was around (especially when his calloused hands were stroking his face like that) so he just grabbed the first thing he found and waved in front of O'Malley's face. Unfortunately, that thing had been his house-keys.

O'Malley's eyes followed them for a few seconds, then he grabbed them out of Doc's hands and backed away, jumping onto one of the cots to examine the keys.

"Uhm, could I have those back? I need them, the last time an inmate took my keys I had to sleep outside that night..." Doc asked quietly.

"Mmh... No." O'Malley shook them slightly. "I have no incentive to give them back. ...Nice keychain." He prodded the tiny cat wearing mittens that was attached, as well as a yellow smiley face keychain. "Cute. Something I would expect to see attached to the bag of a schoolgirl."

"Please? Please give them back?" Doc pleaded.

O'Malley shook the keys again, oddly reminiscent of a child shaking a particularly shiny toy. "No. They're my keys now. You should know better than to dangle things in front of my face. You belong to me, so logically anything that belongs to you belongs to me." O'Malley chuckled, turning the keys over in his hands.

"I-I don't belong..."

"Oh, yes you do. Actually..." O'Malley held up the keys, his eyes flickering from them to Doc. "Keys pale in comparison to you, my little plaything. I'll give these back... If you stop protesting and let me play with you for a while without your pathetic attempts at distractions."

Doc shook his head. Five years ago his protests would have been more panicked. But he knew what was coming, and he knew that in the long run there was no way to stop it. "It's... It's not allowed..." he said feebly.

"And you're also busy. Excuses, Doc. Now if you just decided to be rude for once and say 'I hate you so much and wish you would die in a way that wouldn't make me feel guilty' then that would be much more truthful." O'Malley shook the keys and laughed. "Come on... You need your keys. Unless you want to sleep outside again."

Again, Doc would protest. Again, Doc would feel guilty for doing so. He'd feel like it was his fault that O'Malley had stolen his keys, that O'Malley had grown so horribly attached to him. That it was somehow his fault that O'Malley was taking over his life.

Protesting felt bad. Giving in felt even worse. But like every time an argument came up, Doc lost. Every single time, Doc would give in.

All Doc could do was stay still and try to block out O'Malley's hand touching where they shouldn't. There'd be the occasionally wordless protest, like when he tried to keep his mouth shut even when O'Malley pressed two fingers to his mouth and told him that if he didn't play along it would hurt much more and probably make him bleed, and then he'd open his mouth because it was just easier that way.

All Doc could do was stay quiet, even though he could never stop himself from clenching because it hurt and it felt wrong, and he could never stop the little whimpers and moans from escaping, and every time a noise escaped O'Malley would chuckle. But Doc would just try to stay still, and stare at the picture of the kitty hanging on the clothesline, and tell himself to hang in there because it would eventually be over.

And when it was over, O'Malley would mock and belittle him for being such a pushover, and wipe away the mess while claiming it was because he was such a nice man, even though it was probably just in case someone else walked in. And then he'd remind Doc that there would be hell to pay if he ever ran away.

That's how it went. That's how it always went.

Later, O'Malley left in a much happier mood than he had been in when he entered. Doc, still holding his reacquired keys, would fix his clothing and rinse out O'Malley's taste with the strong, spearmint-flavored mouthwash that he kept in the infirmary.

All Doc could do was pretend that this never happened. He would try to forget, but he never could. Even the taste of spearmint he used to try and cover up the memories didn't help.


	57. Chapter 53: Intimidation?

**Chapter Fifty-Three: Intimidation?**

"Alright. I think the Lopez problem is fixed. Sort of," Church muttered. He and Tucker were sitting on the concrete in the yard, playing with an old set of cards.

"Yeah? You spontaneously learn Spanish?" Tucker asked.

"Nah. Caboose said something about Donut knowing 'Spaniel' so I assumed he meant Spanish. So, we have someone who knows Spanish... problem is, it's fricking Donut. He doesn't exactly inspire fear. Hit me."

Tucker tossed down another card.. "Twenty-three."

"Fuck."

They were betting whatever they had brought from Wyoming in the last month. At the moment, it was just cigarettes.

"You don't even smoke," Church complained.

"Yeah, but this shit is like currency in here..."

"Point taken."

"So, what'd you do about Donut?"

"Told him to talk to Lopez about buying protection. Also told him to make things sound worse than they are, emphasise all the bad shit. You know, violence and raping and all that. And if Lopez rejects the deal, I told him to fish around for information about him. I have to buy some more fabric softener for him in return."

"Bet you five cigarettes he messes up."

"No deal."

Tucker started shuffling cards again. Church was glaring at him as he did so.

"You're not doing something weird with the deck, are you?"

"Oh, come on. Give me a little credit. I could, but I'm not." Tucker pulled a face. "Maybe if I was playing with someone else, I'd cheat. But it'd probably get me beat up anyway. And I don't cheat around you. You'd totally throw a bitch fit if I did."

"I would not throw a 'bitch fit.' I would just punch you in the face."

After some more card-playing, Tucker sighed and slipped the pack of cards into his pocket.

"Man. This ain't as fun as it was on the outside. Admittedly, I cheated there a lot. Less likely to get beaten up. I could run pretty fast if it came to that. Here... well, even if my lungs still worked, where would I run to?"

"Fuck, I dunno. I guess you could hide in the laundry closet or something."

"Yeah, but that's not running. That's hiding." Tucker settled back against the brick wall. "Great, now I'm thinking of the outside. God, I miss the stuff out there. What I wouldn't give for a goddamn steak. Or alcohol that doesn't taste like orange juice."

"Yeah, suck it up."

"Also, I miss the ladies. And they're deprived of this." Tucker gestured downwards at himself. "It's a crime on humanity."

Church snorted. "Yeah, such a crime. Puts all the drug dealers and murderers in here to shame."

"Hell yeah it does. Hey, you miss anything on the outside?"

"No."

"Really? Nothing?"

"No. Nothing," Church replied. "World was fucking shit. In here it's fucking shit, too. But at least I got a good enough hold on it."

"Right, guess that makes sense. But seriously? You don't miss the ladies?"

"I didn't know any ladies on the outside. I just had Tex."

"Heh. I hear you."

"Don't tell her I said that. She will punch me so fucking hard."

"Hey, I won't tell. Bros before hos, right?"

"Did you just call Tex a ho?"

"Alright, I won't tell her what you said as long don't tell her what I said."

* * *

Grif drummed his fingers against the phone, waiting for Sister to pick up. He stopped drumming his fingers once he noticed how stained they were. Too many cigarettes, probably. They hadn't looked like that when he'd gotten locked up. But what else was he supposed to do? Quit? Nah, not gonna happen.

He hoped Sister would pick up the phone. He'd used up cigarette money on this call. If that money was wasted, Grif was gonna be pissed. Even though it would probably stop Simmons bitching at him about the dangers of smoking. Wuss.

It only took a few rings for Sister to pick up, but it felt like longer to Grif. Maybe because he was a bit worried about her. Actually, he was always kinda worried. Sister just had a habit of getting into shit. But the lack of visits in the last few months hadn't helped. So when she finally picked up, Grif breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hey, Sis. What's going on?"

"Dex? I didn't even know they had phones in there. This is, like, the first time you've called me." Sister sounded fine, but there was an oddly nervous tone in her voice.

"You sound weird. Anything wrong? And you haven't visited in the last six months, what's up with that? Has anything bad happened? Or did I just offend you on your last trip here or something?"

"Nooo. It's got nothing to do with you, I was... just kinda busy, that's all..."

"That sounds suspicious..."

"Oh my god, why do you say that every time I say something weird?" Grif had to pull the phone away from his ear to stop himself going deaf at that rather sudden shout.

"Hey! I don't get suspicious at everything! But you're never busy. You're a Grif! We're natural slackers! We aren't busy people!"

"I know!"

"Okay. You gonna visit anytime soon?"

"Yeah, I guess... I'll be there next week. Stop being so pushy."

"I'm not being pushy. I'm just sick of hanging around with only Simmons and Donut to talk to. You know how Simmons bitches, and Donut keeps talking about interior decorating." Grif could mentally see Sister opening her mouth to ask a question, and quickly added, "No, me and Simmons are not married. Stop asking."

"Aw... Come on, I want a brother-in-law."

"No, now stop asking!"

* * *

"...and then he shivved him with a shank. Or was it shanked him with a shiv? I can't remember. ...I dunno how to say shiv or shank in Spanish..." Donut paused, then continued chatting, following Lopez around the yard. "Anyway. Loads of shanking or shivving or whatever. I got stabbed on my first day here. Stung loads."

"_Yes, I would never have realised that being stabbed hurts if it wasn't for you telling me._"

"Tthen I broke my leg a week later. Well... someone broke it for me. But yeah, that's just the first week. There's a lot of jerks here. And they eat people like chicken. Not literally. I don't think. I mean, I'm sure there's a cannibal around somewhere, what with all the different kinds of jerks they have in here."

"_Most likely._"

"Anyway, then there's all that... erm... bending over stuff. Which I bet is not gonna be like gay sex on the outside. Probably more painful. I mean, it hasn't happened to me because I got protection, but there are some scary guys in here..."

"_If someone tries it on me, I will shove a metal pipe up their rectum._"

"I know, the itchy jumpsuits totally suck as well. I can wash them for you, if you want. I have fabric softener. I mean, I'd have to charge a little, but not much. Like, fifty cents an item. Only because fabric softener is so expensive." Donut stopped again, then slapped his forehead. " God, I'm supposed to be talking in Spanish, aren't I? My bad... I keep forgetting.

"_I can understand English. Although at the moment I wish I couldn't._"

"Cool. So, you gonna pay Church for protection? Information or money? I think it's a good deal."

"_No._"

"Oh... Okay."

Donut had to admire Lopez's calmness. He'd spent the last half an hour telling Lopez about all the horrible things that had happened in this prison. Some of which were true, some were exaggerated and some were completely in the land of fiction. Lopez had barely reacted at all. The most Donut had got out of him was a raised eyebrow and he hadn't hesitated at saying no to Church's deal. He was taking this a lot better than Donut had.

Now that Lopez had rejected the deal, Donut moved onto fishing for information.

"So... Why'd you get locked up?"

"_Killed some men I owed debt to. They threatened to harm my wife if I did not pay up._"

"You killed your wife?"

"No. Your Spanish is horrible."

"Hey, I'm not going to judge. Well, not much. I mean, I killed someone I lived with. Although they started it. It was terrifying. My roomie was really tall." Donut stretched his arms up to try and demonstrate the height, but he found he couldn't reach. "So... uhm... what'd you do on the outside?"

Donut continued to ask Lopez questions, despite the fact that Lopez kept speeding up. Probably getting defensive at all the questions. Or maybe he just wanted to go for a run. Who knew...

* * *

"You have a lighter on you, Wash?"

"No."

"Damn." York felt his pockets. "I could swear I had a lighter around. How am I supposed to light my smokes?"

"You could ask an inmate. Most of them keep lighters in their pockets. That's probably not good for safety," Wash muttered, looking out over the yard. York shrugged.

"Eh. Most of them don't set fire to things. Except Andy. I've tried taking his lighters away but he just always finds new ones. At least it's not as bad as that time he made 'pruno molotovs.' The twins got some bad burns from that." York looked around the yard. "Hey! Wyoming, can I borrow your lighter?"

"Of course, mate. But I want it back within a punctual time frame."

York caught the lighter that Wyoming threw to him. As he attempted to light his cigarette, York saw Wash watching a couple of inmates on the other side of the yard. Donut and the new inmate, York couldn't remember his name...

"Watching Donut again?" York asked.

"Why does it matter?"

"I dunno. I thought you'd be watching an inmate that is... you know, actually dangerous."

A few moments passed, during which York managed to light his cigarette and toss the lighter back to Wyoming. Then Wash said, "I don't trust him."

"You don't trust anyone."

"Especially not that one."

"Out of all the inmates you could choose to distrust, you choose the tiny one who washes clothes to earn money. Why?"

There was a long pause.

"There's a few reasons," Wash finally said. "But for a start... yes, he's tiny and doesn't look like he could stand up in any sort of fight. Yet he's survived for five years here. With someone as apparently weak as him, that shouldn't happen."

"That's because he's got Caboose looming over his shoulder." York tried blowing out smoke rings, but he couldn't quite manage it. They were more like smoke blobs. "You get suspicious at the weirdest things. Sometimes I worry your sanity isn't completely back."

"I'm sane. Completely and totally sane."

"Of course you are."


	58. Chapter 54: New Prospects

**Chapter Fifty-Four: New Prospects**

Lopez had never held back saying what he thought. The world was full of idiots, and most of them didn't understand him anyway, so who cared if he insulted them regularly? This prison was no exception. If anything, it seemed to have an even higher concentration of idiots than the outside.

Lopez had been in prison once before for stealing a car, back when he was eighteen, but that had been different. He'd only been inside for a few months, and inside a relatively quiet prison at that. This one was not quiet. It was filled with idiots. The warden who seemed to believe he was still in the military and that little fruit who wouldn't shut up for hours...

There also hadn't been many violent prisoners in the other prison. In this one... it only took three days for some inmates to get violent. Unfortunately, Lopez had ended up snarking at a group of inmates who knew Spanish.

That had been, in retrospect, a stupid move.

Lopez had made it back to his cell, at least. The inmates hadn't thrashed him so badly that he couldn't walk. He was just very bruised. He'd left them with bruises, so it balanced out. But the fact that his mouth wouldn't stop bleeding was somewhat concerning.

If he'd been back home, Sheila would have checked him over throughly. Even if he felt fine, she would check just to make sure there were no broken bones. Perhaps being so concerned came with being a doctor. In any case, she'd made him promise to try and do the same in prison if possible. Pity that Lopez didn't actually know where the infirmary was and that he didn't know anyone who spoke proper Spanish. Or at least, no one who spoke proper Spanish and who Lopez hadn't yet offended.

As Lopez looked around his cell for something reflective so that he could see why his mouth was bleeding so much, he heard a yelp from a few cells down, on the Blue side of the cell block.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow..."

Lopez had a feeling that he was going to regret seeing what was happening in that cell, but maybe that was just because of his low opinion of the other inmates. Plus, if the other inmate was hurt he'd have to go to the infirmary too, allowing Lopez to follow and find out where it was.

Wiping off some of the blood that was still dripping down his chin, Lopez plodded over to the source of the noise. It was the big inmate he'd been with the fruity one. Lopez couldn't remember his name. The situation was not dire; the inmate had just gotten a spoon stuck underneath the bandage on his arm.

"Ow, ow, ow..." The big guy continued to nervously tug on the end of the spoon. "I cannot get it ou—oh, hello, Mr. Spaniel!"

"_Mr. Spaniel? Are you mocking me? And why did you stick a spoon under there in the first place?_"

"Uhm... I understood what you said exactly."

"_Liar._"

"I cannot get the bandage off, either. Can you help me, Mr. Spaniel?" The big guy tilted his head, staring up at Lopez. "You are bleeding. How did that happen? Is it Tucker's fault? Or... maybe Donut's fault? They... they do things like that. Sometimes."

"_No. It was not the fruit or the other one._"

"You should go to the make-people-better place." The big guy lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "Although Doc is not very good at it."

"_Wonderful. This prison has a warden who is insane and a doctor who is incompetent. I am filled with confidence. But it doesn't matter because I don't know where the infirmary is._"

"Yes? Wait, did I answer wrong? Was the answer no?"

"_Stop pretending you know Spanish._" Lopez scratched the side of his face, frowning. The difficulties of communicating with idiots. Sheila was much better at this. Got through to them with gestures, mostly. Worth a shot.

"_Where is the infirmary?_" Lopez repeated, making awkward gestures to try and convey what he was talking about. Mostly trying to mimic Sheila communicating with her patients. Waving his hands around felt undignified. But almost immediately the big guy stood up, nodding.

"Ohhh, you do not know where it is? Why didn't you say so? I will take you there!"

"_Yes. That would be useful._"

* * *

It was one of those days when O'Malley wouldn't harass Doc. Not physically, at least. Instead, he would just sit on one of the cots and stare at him until the 'doctor' got really uncomfortable. Or he'd try, anyway. O'Malley was prone to getting distracted by, well... everything. So staring consistently at Doc was difficult. Much like keeping his hands still. Even now, as he sat there, his fingers were constantly drumming against the sheets. O'Malley had tried keeping them still, but he couldn't.

It was, in a way, a good thing O'Malley was so distracted. Dwelling on his inability to stop twitching tended to make him angry. Instead, he just started asking questions.

"So, Doc. Anyone else making fun of you lately?"

Doc wasn't looking at O'Malley, but at the same time wasn't keeping his back to him. Perhaps afraid that O'Malley would jump him again. "N-no, nothing like that has happened."

"Are you sure? You're not lying, are you? I would be hurt if you were."

"No. No. Nothing has happened."

O'Malley frowned. He was hoping something had, in a way. Just so he could go and teach them to keep their hands off his things. He hadn't stabbed anyone in a while. The last one had been three months ago. For O'Malley, that was an incredibly long length of time to be non-violent.

"Well, if you insist on that. What about on the outside? Met anyone new? I hope you haven't met, say, a lady friend... I might get jealous if that happened," O'Malley said, chuckling at the end. Lies were fun. As if he would actually get jealous. He just didn't like people playing with what was his on a matter of principle.

"No. No, there's... there's no-one..."

"Right, you don't actually have a life outside this place. When was the last time you took a day off? Not for months. I imagine that's a good thing. You're the only, ah... I was going to say qualified doctor but we both know that's not true."

The door handle twisted at that moment, as someone hammered on the door from the outside. Normally the door was open but O'Malley had made a habit of locking the door whenever he went through it. The guards tended to kick up a fuss whenever he strayed into the infirmary, and O'Malley didn't appreciate the extra solitary time. So naturally, O'Malley climbed off the cot only to crawl under it.

"Not a word, Doc."

Doc sighed and nodded. Once he had told the guards where O'Malley was hiding. Doc had been punished for that. He knew better than to do it again. O'Malley was happy about that, because he preferred not to hurt Doc more than he needed. Didn't want his soft skin scarred.

From O'Malley's viewpoint under the cot, all he could see was feet. When Doc opened the infirmary door, two other pairs of feet walked in. Both inmates, O'Malley could tell from the cheap boots and the little bit of orange jumpsuit he could see.

"I need help. I got a spoon stuck under my bandage, and it is making the burns sting." That was Caboose's voice. Couldn't be mistaken for anyone else. O'Malley assumed for a moment that the other pair of feet belonged to the pastry, but they were too large for that.

"Why did you stick a spoon in there?" he heard Doc sigh.

"I had a very good reason."

"Which was?"

"Uh. I was itchy and I wanted to scratch. This is Mr. Spaniel! I think someone hurt him but I do not know who."

_Mr. Spaniel? Probably not his real name. _O'Malley edged a little closer to the edge of the cot. It wasn't as important that he didn't give away his position, now that he knew there was no guards. He wanted to see who this 'Mr. Spaniel' was, just in case it was someone interesting.

"Uh, Mr. Spaniel, is it?"

"_My name is Lopez. Not Mr. Spaniel, despite what this blond idiot says._"

"Ooh. Spanish. Spanish is quite a nice language," Doc said. O'Malley saw Doc's feet walking forward to stop in front of Lopez. "Although what little I've picked up from what other inmates said to me is not very polite. Mostly insults, swears and such... Still, it's nice to know about other cultures."

O'Malley had a rudimentary understanding of Spanish, although he couldn't speak the language himself. A lot of patients he'd had in the past did, and knowing enough Spanish to tell what they were saying had helped. He knew enough to tell that the man was named Lopez.

"Oh, you're bleeding quite badly. Say 'ahhh.' ...I think you've lost a couple of teeth. I don't really know what to do about that. If you find your broken teeth we could try gluing them back in. Just retrace your steps."

"_Yes. Retrace my steps and walk back towards the men who attacked me. Sounds like a bright idea. Just as bright an idea as eating superglue to fix my teeth._"

O'Malley tried not to snicker. This one was a bit of a smartass. But at least he wasn't liable to do something completely stupid, it seemed. O'Malley had edged close enough to see Lopez better by then. Tall man. Looked tough. Not plaything material. But perhaps minion material.

O'Malley had found many minions in the past. Before prison there had been Gary. That had been fun, even if technically they had been part of a larger group. Inside prison, there had been Wyoming, although he was only a borderline example. There had been Caboose, although that had only been for a few months until he ran off to Church.

All of those minions had been problematic in some way. Gary had been a liar. He may have actually been unable to tell the truth. But if he did, O'Malley couldn't tell. Wyoming worked for the highest bidder, as it was. Though he would help O'Malley, he wasn't above helping the other side. Caboose had the unfortunate habit of becoming attached to people very easily and was too dumb to follow any explicit orders. But this Lopez... He didn't have those problems, at least as far as O'Malley could see...

All he had to do was figure out what Lopez wanted to earn his loyalty. Shouldn't be too difficult.

"_Is anything else broken? I'm not concerned with teeth that cannot be fixed._"

"Well, I don't know how to stop the bleeding. You can't bandage a gap in someone's teeth. You can have this bandage just in case, though."

"_I'm just going to leave now. You don't inspire confidence_."

O'Malley saw Lopez's feet turn around and leave.

"You're leaving? Uh, adios? ...Okay, I'll get the spoon out now."

"That is good. Because it stings more than that time someone shoved macaroni in my ear."

"Oh, I remember that. That macaroni was not for the safety conscious..."

O'Malley tapped his fingers against the floor, grinning as he waited for Caboose to leave. The prospect of a new competent minion cheered him immensely. Maybe then he could go back to finding those little bits of information that could be used against people. That was harder to do now that he was constantly twitchy.

Things had become quite dull around here since then. Doc was fun to play with, but eventually he'd get boring. But now that there was another option, O'Malley felt almost giddy.


	59. Chapter 55: Outside Influences

**Chapter Fifty-Five: Outside Influences**

When visitor's day came around, it resulted in a lot of people sitting outside said room, waiting for the time when they could finally go in. Often that time seemed to stretch on forever.

At the moment, Tucker and Lopez had already gone in. Donut was sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth impatiently. Caboose was making a similar movement, although he was sitting much closer to the door and trying to see through it every time someone left or went in. Simmons was standing and leaning against the wall. Probably the least fidgety of all of them. But even if Donut and Caboose were a little bit restless, they were nothing compared to Grif.

Grif paced back and forth. If any conversation was directed at him, he'd deflect it and return to pacing. Occasionally he would stop and sit down on the ground, but within the next minute he would be back to pacing. When it was time for him to go in, he looked much more nervous than what was normal.

As soon as Grif was gone, Donut edged closer to Simmons. "What's up with him?"

"Worried about his sister, I'd say," Simmons was gazing at the door Grif had just gone through. "He does that. A lot. Even when she doesn't skip visits for six months. He's... uh. To say overprotective would be a massive understatement."

"Really? I haven't heard much about her. I saw the pictures he keeps on his wall, but that's about it." Donut nodded. "She was always wearing clothes in very clashing colours."

"She's colourblind."

"Well, of course. No one wears pink and red together unless they are."

"Sur—"

"WHAT THE FRIGGING FUCK?"

Both Simmons and Donut jumped at Grif's shriek. Caboose quickly shuffled away from the door.

"I think Gruf exploded," he said timidly.

* * *

"Ugh, my ears are buzzing now," Tucker muttered. He shook his head to try and stop his ears ringing from Grif's huge shout before looking back at Junior.

Junior was growing. He wasn't the adorable little six-year-old who was always so happy to see him and always brought in crayon drawings depicting what it would be like three of them were a happy family. No, Junior had long since passed that. Eleven years old now. He was still kind of small and he still had the same weird features his other father had, such as the tinted hair and oddly sharp teeth. But he wasn't the same, and Tucker couldn't quite remember when Junior had made the transition from adorable kid to this older, quieter and less cheerful kid.

Crunchbite was there, too. He wasn't too interested in talking to Tucker, so he just waited near the door for Junior to finish. He hadn't changed a bit. Still the same as ever. Except that, of course, he didn't have to lug around a bag filled with crayon drawings and juice boxes anymore.

Tucker fiddled with his fingers. "Still can't speak English? Lame. How do you get by at school?"

He was answered with a shrug.

"What have they been teaching you if you haven't been learning how to speak English, anyway? You seriously don't have a class of 'English 101: Remedial Kickass?'"

Junior shook his head.

"Hm. But you understand it alright, don't you? Of course you do, you've understood what I was saying for years."

"Blargh," Junior agreed.

"Hey, so..." Tucker glanced sideways at the guards before leaning forward. "You try some of the tricks I mentioned before?"

"Blargh honk," Junior said, nodding.

"Did any of them work? Cons are difficult to pull off on children. When you're still a kid, anyway."

Junior nodded, pulled something out of his pocket. A drawing. Not a crude crayon drawing. This one was in pencil, and while no masterpiece it was less basic than the stick fingers with scribbles for hair.

This one detailed a basic con that Tucker had told Junior about. Most of the pictures on it showed the various stages, so that Tucker could figure out which one it was out of the many he had passed on. The last one had a figure that Tucker assumed was Junior, holding money and with a smiley face drawn on.

Still childish pictures, even if a little more sophisticated. Tucker was pleased.

"Heh, way to go. I still say you'll beat me yet. Window high-five!"

They both touched their hands to the glass, not hitting it too hard just in case the glass decided to break. It was similar to what Tucker had done when Junior was younger, holding their hands together on either side of the glass. But they didn't do that anymore. Junior was at that age when it felt weird, when he looked more like a guy rather than a little kid. Hand-holding or anything similar with a guy was something that just wasn't done, regardless of age.

"You gonna be back next month?"

Junior paused, then shrugged. That little gesture managed to throw Tucker completely off. Junior had missed visits sometimes, but he'd never shrugged when asked if he was showing up. He had always blarged in a reassuring way.

Funny how one little shrug could make Tucker feel like he'd been punched.

* * *

"Wow. That was even louder than I expected," Sister said cheerily.

"Louder than... What did you fucking expect me to do?" Grif snapped. "Here I am, worrying about you and you never visiting... and on top of that... You've gotten yourself fucking pregnant?!"

"Whoa, cool your jets. It's not like I did anything that bad. I've gotten pregnant before. I can't even count the amount of abortions I've had on my fingers anymore." Sister paused for a moment, tapping her fingers as she counted quietly under her breath. "Nope, can't count how many. What's the big deal about this?"

Grif mumbled incomprehensibly for a few moments, staring down at Sister's very pregnant belly. Now that his mind was getting past the 'holy crap, Sister is really pregnant' initial shock, he started to wonder why he was so surprised. Sister was right, it wasn't the first time.

"Yeah, well... I never expected you to actually fucking keep it."

"It's not an 'it,' Grif. It's a 'he.'"

"Hrm." Grif crossed his arms and scowled. "You probably don't even know who the father is."

"Sure I do. He, um... I think he was a taxi driver? I don't really know, I was a bit drunk at the time. Can't remember his name."

"Wonderful. So what? You're just gonna shove out this kid, and then what? You can't raise a kid on just the money you earn through waitressing."

"I saved up. I got money from an old stripper job I used to-"

"You what?!"

"Oh, I never told you about that because I knew you'd get mad. That was ages ago, like... six or seven years ago? Made loads of money, they'd just lost their top stripper so there was, like, this power vacuum... Anyway..." Sister flapped her hand airily. "No big deal. You're making too much of a fuss, Dex. That's why I didn't tell you to begin with. Yyou're just assuming that I'm gonna fuck up."

"You always fuck up! You always make stupid decisions that end up with you passed out in a ditch or lying in hospital with..." Grif swallowed, then shook his head. "Point is, why shouldn't I believe this is any different? Why shouldn't I believe that you're going to screw up without me there to stop you?"

"I've managed the last nine years without you, haven't I?"

Grif opened his mouth to respond, and then found he had nothing to say.

* * *

Caboose was getting progressively more impatient.

"Fidgeting won't make time go faster," Donut told him.

"I want to see Sheila. She has not visited for a long time. A very long time. I thought she had forgotten about me. But she is here, and I want to see her. And it is taking a long time. And she is out there. I saw her when the door opened."

"At least she's here. I think Mama's late again. Either Mama Liz got lost again, or Mama Julie got tired and fell asleep on the train."

The door swung open, and Grif left the visitor's room.

"Grif, what the hell happened in there?" Simmons asked.

Grif didn't speak. He just walked past Simmons and headed down the corridor.

"Grif!"

"Hey, Simmons. You can go in, now," York said from inside the visitor's room. Simmons glanced between the door and where Grif had stormed off to, and then went through the door, with perhaps a trace of reluctance.

Caboose, oblivious to what had happened, had instead been trying to peer through the door. As it closed behind Simmons, Caboose frowned.

"She is talking to Mr. Spaniel."

"She? Oh, you mean Sheila. Wait, really?" Donut shuffled closer to the door. "Now I'm curious. He won't say anything beyond killing his wife."

"I do not like that. He and Sheila were... they... they were doing that thing that people who really, really like each other do. Tucker calls it a 'window high-five.' Only family and lovey people can do that."

"Oooh! So he and Sheila... But if he killed his wife... Maybe he killed his wife because she was pushy and wouldn't agree to a divorce? Or maybe he's a crazy wife killer?" Donut said in a hushed tone, just in case Lopez chose that moment to walk through the door.

"A crazy wife killer?" Caboose's eyes widened. "But if Sheila is window high-fiving Mr. Spaniel... Then that means he likes her in a wifey way and..."

"Or maybe his wife died in a completely unrelated way and he's innocent. Or maybe he just killed her for shits and giggles. Who knows," Donut concluded.

"He is a danger to Sheila!"

"What? But he's locked in here, how could he?"

"Cannot... cannot take chances. Cannot let him hurt Sheila. She is a precious flower," Caboose muttered under his breath.

When Lopez walked through the door and found the other two inmates staring at him, one curiously and the other venomously, he didn't ask why. He just shook his head and muttered something insulting under his breath before leaving.

Caboose had gotten to his feet and made to go in the room, but York raised a hand. "Hold up a minute." Sheila was now peering down at a pager, looking slightly frustrated. York gestured for Caboose to stay where he was and walked over, leaning towards the glass. After Sheila and York exchanged a few words, Sheila ran out of the room. York returned.

"Sorry, Caboose. She got a page from the hospital, so she had to go. She said to apologise to you."

Caboose frowned, but didn't say anything in response. He just sat back down, with that expression that suggested he was trying to think harder than what he actually had the capacity for.

* * *

It was one of the rare times when Mama Julie came to visit. She didn't show up much, and they were often quiet occasions, save for Donut's rambling. That day was no exception.

After a very long stretch of silence, Donut spoke.

"You look very yellow. Are you okay?"

Mama Julie nodded. "I'm here, aren't I? Liz wouldn't have allowed it if I was too ill."

"Okay. ...Are you sure?"

"Yes, Donut. I'm sure."

"Alright, then."

There was more silence. Enough to make things very awkward. Very, very awkward. Donut gazed at his mother through the glass. She still looked yellow. And tired. Very, very tired.

"Uhm. So. ...Watch any good shows lately? Do they still show the same shows on TV? Probably not... uh..." Donut didn't normally struggle so much with conversation. Even though Mama Julie was normally quiet, she usually managed enough small talk to keep Donut rolling. It was up to Donut to fill in the silence, but there was only ever so much to talk about. Prison didn't provide much variety, as it were.

"I haven't watched much television lately."

"Okay..."

More silence.

"I guess I should probably go soon."

"Yeah, okay."

Mama Julie still didn't move, and the silence kept stretching on. She had an odd expression on her face, one that to most people would have still looked like 'bored' but to Donut looked like 'struggling to say something.' An expression that didn't show up much.

"Donut. I, uh... I just wanted to say that I love you and that you're... you're a good kid and I'm glad that... that Liz dragged you over at the orphanage that day, and all that lovey stuff and everything."

Donut blinked. Not to say that his mother was completely cold, but the most affection she had ever expressed through words was 'well done,' generally in regards to grades and such. She wasn't one for mushy words.

"Have you been replaced with a clone?"

"Well, if I was trying to imitate myself... I wouldn't have said anything that mushy. I just... you know. I realised I never told you that enough. Or at all. I was never good with kids. It was always Mama Liz that wanted children."

"Ouch, Mama."

"Sorry, that's not what I meant. I mean, I didn't want kids. But I'm... I'm glad we adopted you and... and stuff, y'know?" she finished, looking mildly uncomfortable.

"Oh. I love you, too." Donut leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Are you sure you're not an impostor, though?"

The expression on Mama Julie's face still looked 'bored' to others, but there was a tiny smile there. "If I was a clone, I probably wouldn't know it. As for an impostor, I'd be a bad one if I admitted to it."

"That's true. And it's fine about the whole... not enough 'I love you' stuff. I could tell. I'm awesome like that."

"I know."

* * *

Church didn't mind the quiet, but it was a little odd. Dinner was usually noisy. At this point, he would normally be shouting at Tucker to shut up about whatever sexual conquests he had managed on the outside. Instead, Tucker was quiet. Just staring down at his food.

Tucker wasn't the only one acting strange. Grif was also staring down at his food. Weirder yet, he wasn't actually eating it. Just staring. Coming from Grif, that was downright freakish. Simmons kept glancing at his friend, looking mildly worried. Caboose looked like he was trying to glare a hole through Lopez's head, although Lopez, who was sitting at a nearby table, just looked mildly annoyed by the attempt. Donut seemed to be the only one not acting completely off.

Church shook his head before returning to his food. If people always acted this weird after having a visitor, it made him glad that he never had any.


	60. Chapter 56: Crying And Sulking Is Manly

**Chapter Fifty-Six: Crying and Sulking Is Manly**

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Grif had been fiddling around with one of his pruno bags, the one that held the 'white lightning.' He didn't look up when he heard Simmons' voice. He knew what Simmons wanted to talk about and he wasn't in the mood for it.

"What do you mean, what's wrong with me?"

"Don't play stupid. You stormed off in the middle of Sister's visit. She said you left without saying good-bye or anything. And you've been acting weird since then."

"Yeah? What's your point?"

"Why?"

"Oh, did you somehow miss the fact that she's fucking pregnant? Are you that fucking retarded?"

Simmons crossed his arms. "You're acting too weird for that to be the only reason. I can understand being surprised, but... Come on. Out with it."

Grif still didn't look up. "Hey, you want to tell Church that if he still wants to buy any of this stuff that he better hurry? Tell him it's still at least twenty-five a tumbler."

"You're avoiding the question."

"What question?"

"Grif!"

"Can't you take a fucking hint? I don't want to talk about it, alright?" Grif snapped. "You wouldn't get it anyway, you don't give a flying fuck about your family."

Grif immediately regretted shouting that once he saw the look on Simmons' face. It was a quick look, but that hurt expression was etched into Grif's brain. Simmons quickly covered up the expression, although his ears had gone bright red. They only did that when he was embarrassed... or mad.

"I'll tell Church twenty-five a tumbler." Simmons' tone was frostier than before. "He's gonna try and bargain for a lower price."

"Yeah, I... I know." Grif fixed his gaze back on the pruno bag. "Tell him the price is more negotiable if he finds some soda. This shit goes much better with soda."

"Fine."

Once Simmons was out of sight, Grif put down the bag and rested his forehead in his hands.

_Grif, you fucking idiot... Why'd you say that?_

* * *

Lopez didn't consider himself a weak person. If someone had told him that he would be going mad within his first couple of weeks of prison, then Lopez would have just made a snarky comment and moved on.

But now he felt differently. This prison was maddening. Lopez was sure the other prison hadn't been this bad. Maybe it was the perspective. The last prison sentence had only been six months. This was twenty years minimum and possibly forever. Yes, it was probably the perspective. Or the inmates who he suspected were all brain-damaged. Either way, Lopez preferred to avoid contact with anyone and just stay in his cell. Or venture out towards the library. Lopez wasn't much of a reader normally, but there were some good books on vehicles in there. It beat trying to talk to the others.

As Lopez pulled a book from the shelf, flicking through it to see if there was anything about motorcycles, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder.

"I want to talk to you. But don't turn around." Lopez made to turn anyway, but the man behind him put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "I said don't. It's best for the both of us if we keep our backs turned."

"_I'm not stupid enough to keep my back to you._"

"Believe me, Spaniard. It's for your own good. I happen to be somewhat, erm, unpopular with the fools that live around your cell. Some of them wouldn't be happy to see us conversing. It'd be foolish to openly speak to me, so it's best if you keep your back turned."

Lopez could feel the hand on his shoulder twitching. Like staying still was an impossibility. Anyone twitching and shaking that much wouldn't have the co-ordination to beat him in a fight. And since the man had responded to the question, he at least understood Spanish. That put him an inch above the other idiots.

Lopez could listen. There was nothing better to do. Besides, if he was going to be stabbed, there would already be something sharp sticking into his back.

"_I want a name._"

"You can call me O'Malley. Now, I have a proposition for you."

"_I've already gotten this talk from three different men. I refuse. I have a wife and would prefer getting stabbed._"

"Not that kind of proposition. Besides, you're too stoic and that just isn't entertaining. I'm in the market for a minion."

"_I still refuse. And did you actually say minion?_"

"Yes. But don't refuse so quickly, my Spanish friend."

"_We're not friends._"

"True. But do you really think that you can survive here? By yourself? You've already been beaten up once. If something serious happens... well, Doc isn't the most competent of medical personnel. I think I can count the amount of medical procedures he's good at on one hand. Maybe just a couple of fingers."

Lopez snorted, before returning to his book.

"_That is true. But I still don't care. I'm not worried. And if something happens, I'll live with it. I don't need help from any idiot in this place._"

"I'm not an idiot, Spaniard. I may be twitchy and crazy, but I'm not stupid. And it's difficult to live with dying."

"_I'm not impressed. And if you need me as a minion, you can't be too well-protected."_

"I'm working on it. But simply my presence will discourage certain, erm... potential enemies. I noticed the blond gorilla—the one you entered the infirmary with the other day—glaring at you. I don't know if you're aware, but that glare is a death sentence for most."

Lopez still wasn't impressed. "_And me being your 'minion' would fix that, would it?_"

"Yes. We have a history." O'Malley laughed quietly, then said, "At any rate, it's not just the muscle I require from you. The fact that you speak Spanish and not English is another bonus. You can stand right next to many of the fools in here and they will talk as if you can't understand them. Do you know how invaluable that is?"

"_For the last time. I refuse. I don't care for serving people of questionable sanity. Just a quirk of mine._"

"How about I let you think on it? I'd hate to stab such potential."

"_No doesn't mean ask again. Idiot._"

"Ooh. You're going to be tough to convince. Fine. Be as huffy as you like, spaniard. But keep in mind what I've said. Regardless of how little you care for your own safety, I'm sure you must have someone who cares about your wellbeing. You mentioned a wife. I assume you wouldn't want her to become a widow, now would you?" O'Malley purred.

Lopez frowned, even as he heard O'Malley leave. He turned around in time to see a brief glimpse of red hair before O'Malley was gone. Lopez continued trying to flick through his book, but he was having a little difficulty keeping his thoughts on motorcycles.

One of the last things Sheila had told him during her visit yesterday was to stay safe. What would she do if something happened to him?

* * *

"Hey, Tucker. You want some white lightning? It'll cost a lot, but it'll get us so wasted that we'll be in a coma for a year afterwards. It'll be awesome," Church said, sticking his head into Tucker's cell. Tucker didn't reply right away. He was staring at the wall.

"Huh? Oh... Yeah, sure," he mumbled. Church frowned and walked into the cell, stood next to Tucker and started staring at the wall as well.

The wall was absolutely covered in pictures. Many of them consisting of crayon scribbles, but eventually they moved onto regular pencils. The contents started off as just random objects, such as food or animals, then moved onto pictures of people. By the end, the pictures looked more organized. But there were fewer of them, and they all seemed to detail cons.

Church glanced sideways at Tucker. Tucker's eyes looked unusually shiny.

It didn't make Church feel good. It just triggered the stinging. The hurt that had kept appearing after the Miller incident. Church shook his head. Stupid chest pains. Church liked to believe that it was just a side effect of being stabbed that had taken a few months to appear. And the fact that it only hurt when Church was around Tucker was just pure coincidence.

Although, by this point even Church realised he was just fooling himself. But he felt better trying.

"You, er... You alright?" Church asked unsteadily. He was never good at trying to shown concern. He'd lost that ability once he no longer had a little brother to care for. Tucker apparently agreed.

"Dude, being concerned doesn't suit you. Stick to being a douchebag."

"Fine. And you can stick to being a hoebag."

"Damn right." Tucker paused, then laughed. "Man. I just realised I miss my kid more than the ladies. See, if you'd told me I would care more for a kid than for boobs and vajay, say, twelve years ago? I would have thought you'd swapped brains with Caboose."

Church snorted. Then he said, "So, you just miss your kid? That's all that's wrong?"

"Ehhh, sort of." Tucker looked down, then looked back at the wall. "I dunno. I just feel like... like I'm missing too much. Every time he visits, it just feels like... the gap between us is getting wider. Few years back, he always seemed happy to see me... He was always bringing in crayon drawings. Pictures of me and him and Crunchbite.

"Now, it's just pictures of cons. Cons I taught him. He doesn't talk to me much, not even blarghs... I just don't know what to do, man. I'm not a father for him. I'm just a guy who sits behind glass and teaches him how to cheat money out of people.

"I can't do anything that dads are supposed to do. Hell, I don't even fucking know what dads are supposed to do. Not like I ever had one. And even if I did, what am I supposed to do? Play baseball through glass with him? How... How can I?"

The words were pouring out now, coming out faster and more jumbled than before. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was meant to help take care of him. I was meant to take care of him and I never... never even saw his first steps. I haven't held him for ten years, it's been so long he wouldn't even remember it. And he's growing up too fast and even now I can't do anything..." Tucker couldn't stop himself. The tears finally started spilling out of his eyes. "I can't help him with his homework or be there to watch any games he plays or teach him how to charm the girls once he's old enough. He'll grow up without me and when I finally get out it'll be too late... He... He won't be my kid anymore. It'll be too late for... for..." Tucker covered his eyes, trying to stop himself from crying. But the tears just slipped through his fingers.

The most Church could do was awkwardly put a hand on Tucker's shoulder and stay quiet. He didn't know what else he could do. He'd never seen Tucker cry before. Not like this. So he just stood there. Waiting for Tucker to calm down.

It took a long time. But eventually Tucker wiped his eyes, trying to rub away the wet streaks and the redness and any other evidence that he'd been so weak as to cry, because weakness was just too dangerous.

"God... I must look like such a pussy," he muttered under his breath. "Crying like a chick who's rolling out the red carpet."

"Eh. Could be worse," Church said feebly. "At least it's not like Donut getting teary from reading one of those romance books in the library. You could be pussier."

"True... True..." Tucker shook his head. "Ugh. Get it together," he muttered, more to himself than Church. "Alright. I... I think I've got it."

"Hm. Well... Good." Church immediately removed his hand, and jumped right back to his habit of insulting Tucker. "Don't need you turning into a river again, douchebag."

"Asshole." Tucker was smiling, though. "Uh... Thanks for not insulting me while I was... Yeah. Also, I think 'you could be pussier' is the closest thing you've ever said to a compliment."

"Don't let it get to your head," Church muttered.

"Okay, fine. Let's go get some alcohol off Grif. I really feel like getting wasted right now."


	61. Chapter 57: Never Have I Ever

**Chapter Fifty-Seven: Never Have I Ever**

"I don't get it. What's the big deal about this stuff?"

"Dude. It's. Fucking. White. Lightning. It's the holy grail of prison liquor. That's what the deal is." Grif was holding the bag of pruno to his eyes, trying to figure out how many tumblers worth there was. Donut was sitting in the corner of the room, watching.

"How does it compare to outside alcohol? How does it compare to, say... appletinis?"

"Dunno. I don't drink girly drinks."

"It's not girly..."

"Sure." Grif tilted the bag, then put it down again. "Urgh... There's not gonna be that much if this is split up into five. Me, Simmons, Church, Tucker... Are you gonna be buying any?"

"I guess. Only to figure out what the big deal is, though."

"Then yeah, divided by five. The only other guys around, well... Lopez just keeps hiding in his cell, and I'm not dumb enough to see if Caboose gets any crazier while drunk."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea. He's been talking to his pigeon again. Ominously." Donut frowned and crossed his arms. "Maybe giving him that was a bad idea..."

"Eh. If you hadn't, then the whole block would still smell like dead pigeon. Anyhow, I got regular pruno as a back-up, so there's enough to either make us pass out or just kill us all." Grif grinned. "It'll be awesome."

Donut flopped onto Grif's cot. "Alright, so how much is this gonna cost? I heard Church bitching about the price."

"Well, for you... how does ten a tumbler sound? Trust me, that's a good deal. Like, half of what Church paid."

"Okay. Why's it so cheap? Is it poisonous?"

"Could be. It's home-made alcohol, there's always a chance it's poisonous. But no higher a chance than normal. You're just getting a better price than Church because I can actually stand you. You know, sort of."

"Awwww, Grif!" Donut cooed. "That's sweet."

"Oh god, please don't cry."

"I'm not... Can't a guy say something is sweet without being made fun of?"

"No. Never."

* * *

Donut took back whatever negative things he'd said about white lightning. It was worth the high price. He felt tingly and warm and half-blind. It was awesome.

The drinking had eventually gone from just regular drinking to games. Opportunities for drinking games were few, since people often drank by themselves or in smaller groups. With six inmates crammed into a cell, what better time?

"Alright. Never have I never... uh. Hold on, lemme... lemme think of something." Donut had to pause as the room swayed alarmingly. "Never have I never really never really really never really never never—ow! Caboose!"

"You were stuck in a loop. When the TV did that, it always started working again if I hit it," Caboose said stubbornly. He was clinging onto a cup as well, but his was filled with orange juice. As such, he was the only person crammed into Grif's cell who wasn't at least tipsy.

"I'm not a television! I don't think so, anyhow. I think someone would have told me," Donut mumbled. "What was I saying? Oh, right. Trying to think of something. Uh... Oh. Never have I ever... ever kissed a girl?" It was all that came to mind when Donut tried to think of things he hadn't done that the other guys probably had. Alcohol stunted his imagination.

"Big fucking surprise," Church muttered, before taking a long sip. Tucker grinned and did the same. Caboose had to pause for a few moments before nodding and drinking his orange juice.

Grif's response to Donut's answer was to turn and punch Simmons in the shoulder.

"Ow! The fuck was that for?" Simmons snapped.

"Uh..." Grif trailed off for a moment. "I had a reason. I just don't remember it. But it was definitely... there."

"Yeah. Sure. You big a-hole," Simmons muttered under his breath before taking a drink.

"Okay, okay. Your turn, Caboose."

"Uh... I never... hugged a dragon?"

"Nuh-uh, you can't say that. Because dragons don't exist."

"They don't?" Caboose looked upset at that, so Donut backtracked.

"Uh. Well. They do, it's just... you wouldn't have hugged one, since they're really hard to keep in zoos. Because they fly over the cages and everything. But they exist. They definitely exist," Donut told him. "But you still have to choose a different question."

"Why are we even playing drinking games? Can't we just drink the damn stuff?" Grif muttered.

"Don't be a killjoy, man..." Tucker said. He was in a similar half-blind state as Donut, although he'd drunk more since the game started.

"Your face is a killjoy."

"Wow. Great comeback," Simmons muttered.

"Shut up."

"So, anyway... you have to choose something that's possible. Usually it's something awkward or gross, like kissing a girl or working in a strip club."

"But I have done both those things"

"Or going down on a—wait, what?"

"It was shiny and sequiny and no-one ever wore clothes." Caboose shivered. "It was icky. And I had to stand there every day and punch anyone who was annoying."

"...Ohhhh. You were a bouncer?"

"Yes, that is the thing. So I cannot say that. What was the third thing?"

"Uh. I don't remember." Donut squinted at the clear, slightly oily liquid in his cup. Now he couldn't stop thinking of Caboose in a sequin-covered stripper outfit. He couldn't decide if it was a good visual or a disturbing one. "Urgh. This doesn't work inside jail. A lot of questions my outside friends asked involved jail and crimes. I mean, I know you all had to have been arrested. Same with murdering..."

"I did not!"

"'Course you didn't, Caboose. Guess if we were more specific and said, like, had we ever killed a family member or something..."

"Why don't we just skip Caboose?" Church said loudly. "He can't get drunk off orange juice, anyway."

Donut half-expected Caboose to protest at that, since the only reason he was drinking orange juice with them was that he wanted to play whatever games they were playing. But Caboose looked troubled about something. Probably wondering whether dragons really existed.

"Sure, whatever. Tucker?"

"Can't think of nothing. I've done a lotta shit. Wait, I've never kissed a guy. Yeah, that."

"Oh, come on, you've skanked around the prison more than anyone in this room," Simmons grumbled.

"I'm just keeping it real. Besides, no kissing. It's only gay if you kiss or if the balls touch. So never kissed a dude, now drink, motherfuckers." That caused everyone but Church to take a drink. Tucker snorted. "Gaaaay."

"Shut up."

Church's earlier questions had mostly consisted of criminal stuff. He'd been trying to dig up more blackmail material. It was the only reason he had agreed to play the stupid game. But he'd run out of crime-related things to ask (and none had gotten any real results anyway.) While he tried to think of something else, he glanced out of the cell to make sure a guard wasn't coming. That made him think of Tex. And that led him on to marriage. "Uh. Never have I ever been married?"

Tucker groaned before taking a long drink.

"You're not serious," Church muttered. He wasn't the only one who was staring at Tucker with disbelief.

"God, I wish I wasn't. It was gross. The second time, especially," Tucker complained. "That chick was, like, eighty. Conning ain't pretty."

"Dear god."

"Someone hurry up and say something else. I really need to get drunk now. Thanks for bringing that up, Church. Seriously, I love remembering married old lady boobs. Only... you know, not."

Now all Church could think about was Tucker in a tuxedo and how he'd probably look damn good in it.

"Hell yeah I would," Tucker said.

_Fuck, did I say that out loud?_ Church shook his head. At least everyone else was too drunk to notice whatever stupid stuff came out of his mouth. Except Caboose, but he probably didn't understand half of what was said, anyway.

They gave up on the drinking game soon after. Partly because they couldn't think of any more questions and partly because they were all so shitfaced that most of them could barely sit up without falling over. Indeed, by that point Tucker was curled up on the floor asleep and Donut was lying on his back, giggling like an idiot. But Church was absolutely fine. The room was just being a douchebag and spinning a bit.

Grif and Simmons had resumed arguing. It wasn't their usual light bickering, however. It was actually angry. And it had started because Grif had remembered why he punched Simmons earlier.

"I remember! It was because I never got you for kissing Sister that one time."

"It was once and you totally did get me back. You punched in the face, remember? Besides, I was... I was that thing that you are when you're not the other thing," Simmons insisted. "Like now. And when I'm... that thing that I can't remember the word for... then I get handsy."

"Last I checked, you don't kiss using your hands! Or have I missed something?"

They were yelling pretty loudly. Caboose, meanwhile, had edged closer to the cell door.

"Uh, guys..." he started quietly.

"And what about that thing where, in your own words, 'she wraps her thighs around your head and makes you swear?' I'm pretty sure that didn't have anything to do with being a handsy drunk!"

"She said it was a submission technique! I thought she was talking about some kind of... kung fu or something! Oh my god, why are you even bringing this up? This was... was... I forget how long ago! Ages!"

"Guys?""

"I'm bringing it up because... Well, I fucking forget! I'm just fucking pissed off about it! I don't even remember what we were fighting about, I just want to punch you in the face!" Grif shouted.

"Just try it!" Simmons snarled.

Grif took him up on the offer, and dived at Simmons. His attempt to punch Simmons failed, as he missed and just smashed his hand against the wall. As Simmons grabbed Grif, trying to get him in a headlock but failing due to lack of muscle and co-ordination, Church nudged Tucker with his foot.

"Tucker, we gotta go! We gotta get out before the guards come to check the fighting," Church muttered. "We gotta be careful, though. Room is still spinning. Motherfucker."

Tucker's response was to groan, wave his hand a little and go back to sleep.

"It is too late for that, Church," Caboose said. He was still pointing outside the cell. "The sarge man and Mrs. McCrabby are walking this way. I think they heard the noise."

"Fuck, why didn't you say something?"

Church scrambled back and tried to look less dizzy and drunk. However one did that. Not that it mattered much. Write-ups weren't much of a problem in his case, since he had no chance of leaving prison anyway.

Sarge strode into the cell, Tex right behind him. Tex's response to Grif's and Simmons' fight was, well, more violence. A punch to the face and a kick to the crotch later and the fight came to a stop.

"Dammit, Tex. I wanted in on the fighting. I'm getting rusty. And Grif, ya dirtbag! You're corrupting the other Reds! And fraternizing with the enemy!" Sarge roared. "Should have you strung up for the night!"

"Fuck you," Grif muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Fuck you, sir!"

"Better! Now, all of you! Solitary, let's move it." Sarge looked downwards at Tucker and Donut, who hadn't budged from the floor. "Someone might have to carry Scarface and Princess Peach here."


	62. Chapter 58: Hannibal Lecture

**Chapter Fifty-Eight: Hannibal Lecture**

"I think I'm dying."

"You're not dying, shut up."

Donut sat up very, very slowly. The memories of what had happened the night before were hazy. He sure didn't remember how he'd gotten locked in a solitary cell. Well, solitary seemed a bit misleading, seeing as the room wasn't empty. Church was sitting on the other cot. He looked just as hungover as Donut felt. Maybe a bit less. He didn't quite look like there was a metaphorical ax through his head, at least.

"What happened? How'd we get here? I didn't grab anyone's package, did I?"

"No."

"Okay. Just checking. I mean, I don't mind doing it, but I got a lot of glares with my roommate once about something like that." Donut groaned, lying back down again. "Oh god... I'm never drinking white lightning again."

Church snorted. "You say that now. But if you get the chance, you'll go right back. Most people do. What else are we supposed to do? Card games and books only go so far and we haven't had a television for thirteen years since the crappy one this prison had got broken in a riot."

"We had a television? Aw. So... What did happen?"

"Guards came. After Grif and Simmons had their stupid fistfight. I think. The room was kinda spinning at the time, so I don't really fucking remember."

"Oh. I kinda remember that. Something about thighs and making people swear."

"Yeah, that. Your food's on the floor, by the way. North came by and left it there a while ago."

Donut took a few minutes to gather the will to actually get off his cot. "Urgh. Water..." After drinking half of his portion of water, Donut added, "So, Grif and Simmons... they were fighting? Like, actually angry fighting?"

"Yeah. Fucking weird, but if it doesn't lead to anything useful to me I don't really give a shit. Not until the annoying screaming starts again. And then they're gonna bitch and whine and eventually have noisy, annoying make-up sex. It's gonna be shit."

There was a long stretch of silence. Then Donut asked, "They're gonna what now?"

* * *

Grif felt like shit for at least three different reasons.

Foremost was the fact that even he could only drink so much white lightning without wanting to kill himself the next day. The pain was annoying, though not the same sort of hangover that the others probably had, because Grif was awesome like that.

Second was the fact that he was locked in a small, windowless cell with Tucker, of all people. One of the people that Grif hated most in this prison, primarily for his constant lewd remarks towards Sister and the fact that he was just such a sly-talking bastard. Not that it was much of a problem at the moment, seeing as Tucker wasn't awake yet. He'd probably drunk the most out of all of them during the 'never have I ever' game, given that he'd done practically everything that anyone mentioned. Hell, there was no probably about it.

The third reason was guilt. Guilt and anger, but mostly guilt. That was probably the main thing annoying him.

_Lovely way to patch things up. Who doesn't appreciate a punch to the face? You dumbass._

Grif stared at the ceiling, hands behind his head. He could hear talking among some of the other solitary cells. He could hear Donut and Church, although he couldn't tell what they were talking about. He couldn't hear Simmons at all. Probably too hungover to talk. Wuss.

Grif slid off the cot, edged towards the food slot. Looked through it, trying to see any sign of where Simmons was. Nothing.

"Simmons? You there?"

Silence.

"Simmons? ...Kissass?"

Silence.

"Don't be a jerk, speak up."

There was a reply to this, although it wasn't Simmons' voice.

"Simon does not want to talk. He is grumpy," he heard Caboose say. "Also, he looks like a panda."

"A panda."

"Yes. He has two black eyes. So he looks like a panda."

Grif shifted nervously. He had probably caused at least one of those black eyes. Although his attempt to punch Simmons in the face had been unsuccessful, he had caught him in the eye with his elbow at one point.

"Can you get him to talk?"

"I do not think that is a good idea. He already got angry at me for talking too much. And I was not even talking to him." Grif heard a huffy sigh. "It is not nice to interrupt conversations. Especially when they are important."

"Important? You were talking to your fucking pigeon!" he heard Simmons shout. His voice was hoarse.

"It was very important," Caboose insisted. "And it was rude to interrupt."

"Simmons! Come on, get your ass up. I wanna talk to you."

Silence.

"Don't be a wuss!"

_So persuasive. Punch them in the face and then insult them. You suck._

_Yes, brain, I know. Now stop bitching at me._

_No. Someone has to do it. Now apologise. _

_I can't fucking apologise. He punched me in the face, too. And the thing with Sister..._

_You're not even angry about that! That was over a decade ago!_

_Okay, seriously. Shut up, brain. God, I'm arguing with myself. Sad._

"Goddammit, Simmons, come on."

"He is blocking his ears," Caboose said.

"Fucking jerk. Get him to unblock them!"

"No. He will get mad again." Caboose lowered his voice to a low whisper. "People being mad is not good. Because then they shout at other people, and then people get mad and accidentally make their cats fall over when trying to get a hug from something."

"Wait, what?"

At that moment, there was a wail from one of the other solitary cells. A wail that sounded a lot like Donut.

"Admiral Fluffermuffin! Are you hurt?" Grif could see Caboose's eyes peering through the food slot a couple of cells away.

"Oh, he's fine. He's just upset because his 'gaydar' is broken. Or something fucking ridiculous like that," he heard Church say.

"It's not ridiculous! Do you know how accurate it used to be? I could sense gayness from a hundred meters away!" Donut wailed. "Now it's broken! Brokeeeeeen!"

Grif slapped his forehead and immediately regretted it, having forgotten about his post-white lightning headache.

"Maybe you can go see a mechanic. He could fix your gaydar," Caboose said cheerfully. "What is a gaydar?"

Grif decided that Simmons had the right idea in blocking his ears. It was far too early in the morning for this crap.

* * *

Doc stared at his hanging kitty poster. Arms crossed, eyes slightly narrowed. This poster was doing a lot less than simply failing to cheer him up. It was actually reminding him of O'Malley now. O'Malley hadn't visited in a few days. Not since Lopez had visited the infirmary. But Doc could always sort of feel him there. Just a feeling that made him constantly check the door so that O'Malley wouldn't get the jump on him.

Doc didn't know what to do. Everything that he had brought in to distract him from O'Malley was now actively reminding him of him. Like the spearmint mouthwash. Now even the faintest smell or taste of anything minty reminded him of the very taste that he'd been using the mouthwash to try and forget about.

It was making Doc angry. For the first time since... since... since possibly forever... Doc was actually angry.

He shouldn't have to do all this. He shouldn't need the mouthwash or the kitty posters. He shouldn't have to think about O'Malley day in and day out. Maybe it was just because the few days that O'Malley had left him alone for had given him just enough of a reprieve to get his head straight. Or maybe it had just been too many years of O'Malley's constant emotional and sometimes physical or sexual abuse. But either way, Doc was mad.

_I shouldn't have to do this. A relationship should be built on love and trust and... It shouldn't be like this. Oh god, what's he done to me, I shouldn't even be calling this a relationship! It's not! It's terrifying! I've... Well, I've had it. When he comes through that door..._

Doc blanked for several seconds, before his thoughts continued.

_I'm going to give him a good, stern talking-to._

Of course, such thoughts were easy to think when O'Malley wasn't there. But when O'Malley finally did come slinking through that door, same grin as ever fixed on his face... it was a lot harder to keep that resolve.

"Uhm... Uh..." Doc choked out.

"Speechless? Are you just so overcome with emotion that I decided to show up?" O'Malley pushed the door shut with his foot.

_Go on, tell him. Tell him you're sick of his sh—unpleasant behavior._

"I, uh..." Doc swallowed nervously. He was trying to think of the right words, but it was difficult. O'Malley just made thinking so much more difficult. All he could force out was, "I don't think I like what you're doing." Even that was shaky.

"What I'm doing? I think you need to be more specific," O'Malley said, stepping towards him. Doc mirrored O'Malley's footsteps, taking a step back for every step O'Malley took forwards.

"You know... the... mean things," Doc said weakly.

"More specific, Doc. Is there a thing that I do that isn't cruel in some way?"

"Well..." Doc shook his head. "No... there isn't. That's what I don't like..." Doc took another step backwards and bumped into the wall. O'Malley grinned and placed his hands on either side of Doc, planted firmly on the wall so that Doc couldn't simply move to the side.

"Really. ...Are you actually protesting to my evil... oh, sorry, you probably prefer 'morally questionable,' don't you?"

"I do prefer that... Evil is a strong word," Doc muttered.

"Of course. But that wasn't the point of our conversation, was it?" O'Malley leaned in, his grin just inches from Doc's face. "If you have something to say about my 'morally questionable' activities, then say it. Or you can just go back to keeping it all bottled up and I'll just have my usual fun. I'm giving you a choice, Doc. Isn't that nice of me?"

Doc tried pressing himself further back into the wall. It didn't work. It never did.

"I..." Doc closed his eyes, trying to think. He'd wanted to protest. He couldn't remember the words. His eyes shot open again when O'Malley reached out to grasp his chin.

"Go on. You know I love to hear your feeble little protests. Honestly, they're even better than the sex. Not that I object to that, either." The redhead smiled even wider before dipping his head down and nibbling at Doc's neck. "So speak up, or I might decide to go with the lesser option. And you never enjoy that, do you?"

Doc tried to squirm away, but O'Malley's grip was too strong to break with simple squirming. Despite the very uncomfortable things that O'Malley was doing to his neck, and the hand that was tangled in Doc's hair, keeping his head yanked back... Doc managed to choke out one thing.

"You're... You're a horrible person."

"Horrible?" O'Malley paused, then lifted his head up. "Is that it?"

"No. It's... It's not." Doc took a deep breath. His insides were shriveling up with fear. "You're much worse than that! You are just... I thought, ages ago, that you might have something redeemable about you. I mean, no-one could be evil through and through, right?" Doc shook his head. "Sometimes, I thought I saw that in you. Just little things, like leaving that blanket on me and those little moments when it felt like you were listening...

"But I just can't believe that anymore. Not after all you've done... I just can't believe you have any good left in you. I always thought the idea that someone who was completely... completely evil... could even exist... I thought the idea was crazy. But you're living proof that... it's not that crazy after all, and..."

O'Malley covered Doc's mouth, eyes narrowed. "Ah, so yes, you are calling me evil. But honestly, isn't that a bit hypocritical of you?"

Doc shook his head. Even though O'Malley had quickly lifted his hand from his mouth, he still didn't speak. He wasn't quite sure what O'Malley meant. Doc wasn't being hypocritical... There was no similarities between him and O'Malley at all...

"You call me evil. Or 'morally questionable.' Either way. And I won't deny that it's very true," O'Malley said quietly. "But have you looked at yourself lately?"

"Me? I'm a doctor! I help people!"

"Do you? How many people have died thanks to your care?" O'Malley grinned. "Must be getting high by now. I'm surprised you're still allowed to work here. So many deaths, so many mutilations. I particularly admired the job on Miller's hands. Sure, you might not have created the original injury. But that job you did, trying to 'fix' them... Excellent. I'm sure he's still feeling that. Won't be able to pick up anything with those fingers ever again, thanks to your treatment. Really. I'm impressed. Proud, even."

Doc was going to say something, but he couldn't remember what.

"You really think you're that different from me? I might try and brainwash people on occasion. Or at least manipulate them into doing what I say. You think that's so different from what you do with those little pills?" O'Malley jerked his head in the direction of where Doc kept the many pills. "You say you gave them to me because I needed them? We both know that isn't true. I never needed any pills."

The expression on O'Malley's face wasn't happy anymore. His eyes had narrowed, his mouth was twisted into a horrible scowl. "I never needed them. You just forced them down my throat because you were scared of me when I was off them." O'Malley shoved a hand in front of Doc's face. As always, the fingers were noticeably shaking. "This is your fault. You realise that on the off-chance I ever managed parole, I wouldn't be able to be a surgeon again? I'd barely be able to write, thanks to you! You ruined my hands! You ruined my ability to even stand still! I can barely make it to the cafeteria without getting distracted! All because you were so terrified you tried to brainwash me with stupid pieces of candy-like medicine. And how many other inmates have you damaged with your horrible grasp on that medicine?"

"No, I... I..." Doc tried to form a defence. But he couldn't.

"You would do more good working at a coffee shop than trying to help people here." The grin had reappeared. "Why do you think I was so interested in you? I was fascinated by you because, whether you realised it or not... Even though you don't wear the jumpsuit, you're the worst criminal in this prison."

Doc couldn't reply to that. He couldn't make a defence against O'Malley's accusation.

Because it was all true.


	63. Chapter 59: Solitary Conversation

**Chapter Fifty-Nine: Solitary Conversation**

"Noooooo..."

Church groaned. "Can't you angst quietly? You're still surrounded by hungover inmates who could easily kick your ass."

Donut lifted his head slightly from his fetal position on the cot. "Can't just quiet down. You have no idea what it is like to realise you've broken your gaydar... It's horrible. Horrible..."

"Oh, cry me a river. Actually, I take that back. Then you'll just cry for longer and it'll be much more annoying." Church massaged his forehead. "Why did I have to get stuck with you, of all people..."

"Hey, I'm not thrilled to be locked up with you either. I mean, I can't even sleep off the hangover in here. The cots are too lumpy. I bet that's the real punishment. When do we get let out of here?"

"Who knows. We were just drunk, so they'll probably let us out within the day. Since Grif and Simmons were fighting, they'll be stuck in here for longer."

"But you need to drink to live," Caboose said, still peering through his food slot. "Or you shrink and die. Like apricots."

"Not that kind of drink, dumbass. I mean the freaking alcohol."

"I did not drink any of that."

"Will you just go back to talking to your fucking pigeon?"

Donut heard shuffling, and assumed that Caboose had returned to pacing his cell, talking to his pigeon about who knows what. Donut sighed, then curled up a little tighter.

He had wondered why his gaydar hadn't pinged in the last few years. Even when he'd been terrified of being forced to 'pick up the soap' (a fear that he didn't have anymore, if only because no-one was going to make him do that with Caboose glaring at anyone who was mean to him) there hadn't been a single ping. Not even from Tucker, despite his reputation for hitting on anything with a pulse.

Okay, his gaydar had pinged once. But that had been during that incident in the infirmary with Church. Maybe his gaydar only worked with physical contact. Not that agreeing to hold hands with another guy really required a gaydar.

Donut uncurled a little, rolled over to face Church. "Hey, Church. Chuuuurch."

"Okay, if you're going to talk to me, then I'd rather you go back to crying."

"But now I'm in the mood for talking!" All anguish over his gaydar gone for the moment, Donut grinned at Church. "Hey, so you and Tucker are, like... tight, right? You know." Donut crossed his fingers. "Tiiiight."

"Are you high?"

"No. I'm hungover, but the best way to fix that is just to keep talking."

"...What."

"Anyway. Tight. You and Tucker."

"Okay, first off... Don't go yelling that out loud, Dye-Job. Because it's fucking bullshit. And you're an idiot. And shut up." Church clasped his deflated pillow against his ears. Donut pouted and started rocking back and forth.

"Aw. You sure?" Donut rested his chin on his hands. "Why not? I mean, even if it wasn't all lovey, it's at least best friends with benefits. How could you go fifteen years without sex? I've only gone, like, five years and I feel like I'm gonna explode sometimes."

"Yeah, I don't want to hear about it. I cannot tell you how much I don't want to hear about it. Now, shut it before I shut it for you, alright?" Church drew a finger across his throat. "Seriously."

"But I'm booooored!"

"Yeah, well... if I cut your throat you won't be bored, will you?"

"You said you don't kill people anymore."

"Fuck, right." Church scowled. "Fucking law against homicide. Things would be a lot more easy if we could just kill the people causing our problems. Worked for the cavemen."

Donut frowned, looked down at his hands. He could still remember how the blood felt on them, even years later. The stickiness and the heavy, coppery smell. And the terror because no matter how much Donut stabbed, his roommate just kept... coming at him...

"Was killing people always easy for you?"

Church didn't answer right away. He just kind of stared at the wall. And it might have just been the hangover, but he looked very old for a moment. Then he laughed. A short, bitter laugh.

"It always felt pretty damn easy. But I guess that's just me being a fucked-up guy."

* * *

Caboose alternated between pacing the cell until Simmons got angry at him, and trying to peer through the food slot. He didn't like solitary. Simmons was too shouty. If he'd been locked up with Church or Donut it would have been good. But he wasn't. Which was sad.

Could have been worse. Could have been locked up with Tucker. Caboose was glad he was not Grif at the moment.

Caboose clung to Margretta tightly, petting the soft, plushy fuzz. He had tried asking it for advice. Margretta didn't answer out loud. But Caboose liked to believe it was talking back.

"What do I do?"

The pigeon said nothing, but Caboose frowned and tilted his head.

"I know she said that. But she might get hurt."

More silence, but this time the silence was received with a nod.

"Yes, that is true. And Mr. Spaniel is... he is a danger to Sheila. I just..."

Caboose stared at the pigeon expectantly for answers.

"Yes, you are right. But I do not know... What if Sheila hates me? If I do that, she might... But she might get hurt. I do not know what to do..."

Silence. Caboose winced and held the pigeon a little bit away from him.

"You do not have to shout." Caboose nodded. "Okay. Once they let me out... I cannot do that when locked inside a tiny room."

"Caboose, shut up already!" Simmons groaned.

"I said stop interrupting our conversations," Caboose muttered.

"Talking to a toy doesn't count as a conversation. That's just insanity."

Caboose pouted and covered the sides of the pigeon's head. "You will hurt her feelings if you say things like that."

"Whoop-de-fucking-doo."

* * *

Tucker's awakening was signaled by a lot of swearing.

"Fuckberries, my fucking head..."

Grif sighed and tucked his hands behind his head, still staring up at the ceiling. "Yeah, you drank too much. You owe me forty bucks, by the way."

"Right, right. But seriously, you could have waited to tell me. Not like I can do anything about it at the moment." Tucker groaned, and Grif heard him shifting on the cot. "Wait a second, we don't share a cell. Uh. Did we get caught drinking? I don't remember, I think I passed out."

"Yeah, we... we did."

"Aw, fuck! That's gonna get a write-up." Tucker flopped back onto his cot in a somewhat melodramatic way. "Damn, and I was going so well."

"No-one cares. Don't hear me bitching about getting written up for punching Simmons."

"You get a write-up every couple of months, big deal. Seriously, are you trying to stay locked up?" Tucker snapped his fingers, then winced. "Ow. But that reminds me. Tell Sis I said congratulations about the kid. Even if I'm sad that she's probably off the market now."

"Shut the fuck up about Sister!" Grif snarled. "Or I'll punch you out next!"

"Whooooa. Hey, don't break any of my bones again. That hurt. And it was bad enough when we actually had a decent doctor." Tucker raised his arms defensively. "Easy. As much as I might want to fuck her, it's not like I can do that through a glass screen. Not unless we were really, really inventive."

"I'm gonna have to kill you now, you realise?"

"Eh. It was worth it. Man, you're edgy."

"What? How would you feel like if I said I wanted to fuck your mum?"

Tucker raised an eyebrow. "Well, she's kinda dead. So I'd say you have some serious issues. She was a hooker, anyway. So I'd be cool with it."

"Okay, bad example. In so many disturbing ways."

"Hell yeah it was."

"Also, I kinda ate your breakfast."

"Aw, come on!"

"In my defence, I was hungry and I hate you."

"You suck." Tucker stretched out on the cot, then said, "Seriously, you're on edge. Con artists can read people pretty fucking well. We have to."

"Look, even if I felt like explaining it to you... which, what with the seething hatred and all, I don't... You wouldn't get it anyway, so just shut up."

"Dude, don't you know who you're talking to? I mean, I get it. Sister is growing up and doesn't need you anymore. And it's making you sad and pathetic and all that."

There was a stretch of silence before Grif muttered, "Fuck."

"Hah, got you."

"You didn't get me! Just... shut up."

"I'm not making fun of you or anything. I mean, normally I totally would. But since the same thing is happening with me and Junior, I'd end up sort of insulting myself at the same time. But seriously... You want my advice?"

"No. You lie, like, eighty percent of the time."

"Do not. At best I lie, like, a third of the time. People believe you more if you tell the truth as much as possible. Seriously, man. You'd be a shitty con."

"Yeah. Too much work, anyway. You're probably charging for advice, aren't you?"

"Well, I want your lunch. But that's just because you ate my breakfast. Really, I just don't want to have to put up with you getting pissy at everything. And also, family problems suck. So, just gonna say this. Throwing tantrums and running off from the visits ain't gonna do shit. If you've got family that actually cares for you, you better fucking hang on. Even if they don't actually need you." Tucker waved his hand vaguely. "Whether it's outside the prison..." Tucker then pointed in the direction of Simmons' solitary cell. "Or inside it. You get me?"

Grif crossed his arms and groaned. "Dammit. Why'd you have to go and say that? That hit way too close."

Tucker grinned. "Told you. You owe me your lunch."

"Fuck that."


	64. Chapter 60: Minion Or Death

**Chapter Sixty: Minion Or Death?**

The door swung open sometime after lunch. Donut, who was still attempting the near-impossible task of getting comfortable on the lumpy solitary cots, looked up to see that York had been the one to unlock the door.

"Out you get. Come on."

"We can leave?"

"Yeah. We need more cells free, anyway. And it was just drinking, nothing serious. So, yeah. Out." York walked to the right to unlock Grif and Tucker's cell as Donut climbed to his feet and Church did the same.

"Urgh. Thank god. I was going mad," Church muttered as York fiddled with the locks. Donut saw that he wasn't actually using keys. He was lockpicking. York looked up briefly to see Donut watching.

"What? I left my keys at home," he muttered. After a few more seconds, the door slid open. "Tucker, you're out. Grif, you gotta stay there."

"Hey, hey, wait," Donut heard Grif say. He didn't hear anything else as Tucker left the cell, looking rather cheerful. York stuck his head into Grif's cell, and Donut could hear them talking about something, but he couldn't distinguish the words.

"Freedom!" Tucker yelled, before punching Church in the shoulder happily.

"Ow, fuck!"

"Oh, don't be a wuss."

York backed away from Grif's cell, muttering something about how he was too soft. He didn't lock Grif's door, and Grif followed York out. After a few moments of fiddling with the locks, Simmons' and Caboose's cell was open. "Caboose, out."

"Yay." Caboose shuffled out of the cell, clinging onto his pigeon. York didn't close the door. Instead, he gestured quickly inside the cell. Grif sidled past him into Simmons' cell, at the same time discreetly sliding a ten dollar note into York's hand. York locked the door behind him.

"Alright, into the yard. Or go to your cells, either way. Move along."

"No problem." Donut stretched his arms above his head. "Oh man... I'm tired. Gonna go take a nap."

"Take a nap? You just spent the entire day trying to sleep," Church muttered, as the four of them left the row of solitary cells, returning to the main part of the prison. "We need to extort money out of some of the inmates to pay for the fucking white lightning. Tucker, we got any blackmail information worth, say, sixty bucks?"

"Sure, buncha stuff."

"Caboose, come on. If they get violent about it, we need you there as a meat shield."

"Oh. Okay. I have something to do, though," Caboose muttered.

"Well, do it afterwards."

"Okay."

* * *

Grif perched on the empty cot, gazing at Simmons. Simmons was lying on his cot and determinately staring in the opposite direction. The silence was so thick and awkward that you'd need a knife to slice through it.

"Uh. So," Grif started. "Uhm. Yeah. Things."

"Fucking eloquent," Simmons muttered.

"Shut up. Ugh, I mean..." Grif sighed, scratched the back of his head. "I hate this part."

Simmons crossed his arms, continued staring at the wall. Didn't say a word to decrease Grif's discomfort. Well, he probably deserved that...

_Come on, think of something to say._

"You really do look like a panda."

_Grif, you're an idiot._

"Grif, you're an idiot," Simmons told him, reaching up to cover his bruised eyes.

"Yeah, I'm aware of that, alright?"

It got quiet again, to the point that Grif just wanted to scream as loud as possible just to stop the awkward, angry silence, but he couldn't think of anything to say that would actually help.

Instead, he just approached Simmons. Simmons didn't uncover his eyes, but he did turn his head a little at the sound of Grif moving closer. And when Grif took a hold of his arm, rested his head on Simmons' shoulder... while he did tense up, he didn't move away.

After a few more moments of thinking, Grif muttered, "Sorry. I'm not angry about that thing with Sister. I was angry about... other things."

Simmons uncovered his eyes. He still looked cranky. "Yeah, that completely justifies punching me in the face, doesn't it?"

"Fuck you. But seriously, I was a jackass. The punching and yelling and saying you don't give a shit about your family... all that bullshit. My bad. Sorry."

Simmons uncrossed his arms, glancing sideways at Grif. "Right. Whatever. What was that stuff about you being angry at other things?"

"Uh... nothing."

"You want to talk about it?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

The mood lapsed back into awkward silence, with Simmons fidgeting with his fingers and Grif now staring at the wall. But at least Grif didn't want to scream anymore. And Simmons looked a little less grumpy.

* * *

Lopez was enjoying the peace around the cell block. Sure, it had been incredibly noisy and irritating the previous day, but with all the people surrounding his cell in solitary, it was quiet for the first time since he'd been locked up. The fruity one had returned not long ago, but he'd been quiet since returning to his cell. If Lopez listened closely, he could hear snoring. But it was quiet enough to ignore.

As he flicked through a book he'd found on car engines, he heard footsteps. Lopez frowned and moved off the bed quickly. He'd been a little on edge since O'Malley spoke to him. He wasn't worried about getting hurt or even killed. That was how life went. He was just worried about what would happen to Sheila if it happened. It was that thought that had put him on guard. This had resulted, so far, only in Lopez getting slightly worked up whenever a guard or random inmate went walking past.

This time, when Lopez went to look outside his cell, he didn't see a guard. He just saw the blond idiot walking towards him. The blond idiot—_what was his name? Caboose? Something to do with trains, odd way to name someone_—saw him.

The glare he was giving Lopez was incredibly intense. Lopez could suddenly see why O'Malley would say it equalled a death sentence, because if looks could kill Lopez would have been killed, vaporized and buried. And then his grave would have exploded.

Lopez quickly sized up his chances. Caboose wasn't holding a weapon. That was a plus, but then again neither was Lopez. Caboose was a lot bigger than him. Lopez saw this. Yet he couldn't find it in him to run. Lopez did not run. He would stay safe the way he always had. By punching any danger in the face until it left him alone.

Still. Maybe this was a bad idea. Lopez couldn't punch every hostile inmate into submission.

Caboose paused momentarily to gently toss the toy pigeon he was holding into his cell, before continuing towards Lopez. Glare still in place.

Lopez raised his fists. Just as a warning. Maybe Caboose would decide not to fight and leave. Caboose didn't make any sign of recognition when the fists were raised. Just kept walking. Lopez took a step backwards. He didn't like the feel of this.

But then Lopez saw someone appear behind Caboose. Caboose wouldn't go beating him up in front of others, would he? What was Lopez thinking, these were bloodthirsty prisoners. Of course he would. They'd probably just take bets on who would win. Or join in. Who knew.

Then Lopez noticed that the inmate had red hair. Even though he'd never seen O'Malley's face before... it had to be him. Because that wide smile could only belong to a crazy person.

O'Malley grinned and raised an eyebrow. He didn't have to say anything. He just wanted his answer. Be a minion or be torn into tiny pieces. Lopez's eyes darted from O'Malley to Caboose. Trying to pick between two choices that seemed equally insane.

Then Lopez nodded. Just once. O'Malley grinned even wider and Caboose's eyes narrowed.

"What are you nodding at?"

"He was nodding at me, Mikey."

The difference that one sentence made in Caboose was quite amazing. He froze and a look of absolute terror spread across his face almost immediately. One sentence was all it took to stop that glare. Lopez was almost impressed.

Almost.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no..." Caboose said very quickly under his breath. He didn't turn around.

"Oh, yes." O'Malley reached into his jacket, and pulled something sharp out. "Very. Much. Yes. It's been too long since I saw some blood flow."

Lopez held up his hands. "_I don't think that's necessary—_"

But it was too late for any reasoning. It was too fast, and Lopez couldn't really see what happened because Caboose was in the way. But he heard metal hit flesh (a sound he was familiar with) and Caboose let out a short, high-pitched noise. Lopez couldn't even see the injury itself, he could only see the screwdriver handle sticking out of Caboose's shoulder, O'Malley still holding onto it.

"It isn't necessary at all. But it's fun and the pain helps him remember." O'Malley viciously jerked the screwdriver and Caboose screamed in pain. "Helps – him – remember – that – he – doesn't – touch – what – belongs – to – me." With every word, O'Malley twisted the screwdriver and forced more screams and sobs. "He'll just forget again, otherwise."

Even when O'Malley didn't purposely jerk the screwdriver, the shaking hands caused the screwdriver to shake in turn, tearing at the flesh around it even more. When he went to pull it out, he couldn't.

"Hmph. You can't even get stabbed without messing it up. Now you've made me waste a screwdriver. Can't you do anything right, Mikey?" O'Malley muttered dispassionately, still tugging on the screwdriver. "I almost hope I hit something vital. I tried not to, but my aim isn't as good as it used to be. Oh well, could be interesting either way."

O'Malley twisted the screwdriver one last time before giving it an almighty pull, finally wrenching it out and letting the blood flow a lot faster. Caboose immediately backed away, bumping into the wall and cowering away from O'Malley, trying fruitlessly to stop the bleeding with just his jacket sleeve.

"Follow, Spaniard. We need to discuss things. Plots. Fun activities." O'Malley waved his now blood-covered hand, motioning for Lopez to follow him.

Lopez gritted his teeth, the only sign of emotion that he let himself show. He did follow O'Malley down the hall (trying his best not to look back at Caboose) but he had the strong feeling that he had made the more insane choice in doing so.

Particularly when O'Malley added, "Don't think I was just being theatrical back there. You do belong to me now."

Definitely the more insane choice.

* * *

Donut's dreams were vivid. At first they were nice. It was warm and pink. Like his old bedroom he'd had as a kid. There had been lots of lace. And the smell of cake. Cake always made things better. There had been this sense of peace and well-being.

Which had made it all the more jarring when it swung back into his old nightmare.

Back to the screaming and snarling. Back to the stickiness. And the smell. The smell of blood was so strong, it really felt like Donut was really doing the murder all over again...

"Donut. Donut. Donut."

That was odd. His roommate hadn't been saying his name. His roommate was too quiet. Something was prodding him in the side.

"Donut. Donut!"

"What? I'm up!" Donut sat up, staring around the room. Grey walls, not pink. And the rest of the dream had faded, too. No more screaming, no more stickiness.

The smell was still there.

Caboose had been prodding him in the side. His hands were covered in blood, and more was dripping from the large stab wound in his shoulder.

"Oh god," Donut breathed.

"It hurts," Caboose said quietly. "And I am... very dizzy..."


	65. Chapter 61: Stitches

**Chapter Sixty-One: Stitches**

Doc gazed at the cat poster. He wasn't really thinking and staring at that poster, that shamelessly cheery poster, was his default activity when there was nothing to do. It was all he'd been doing since O'Malley had torn apart every little illusion he had about himself.

He'd thought he'd been doing some good. He knew he wasn't a good doctor. Or even really a doctor. But he thought he'd been doing at least a little bit of good. But he couldn't recall the last time that something had gone right. He was good at some procedures. But they seemed so far and in between when he really thought about it...

There was a loud knocking at the door, but Doc didn't even realise it immediately. Too out of it. He didn't feel like he was entirely attached to reality...

The knocking kept going and yelling accompanied it this time.

"Doc! Open the door! Come on, you gotta open the door!"

Doc snapped out of it. "Right. Hang on."

When he opened the door, Donut entered. He was half-dragging Caboose along with him, holding his once-orange jacket to the bigger man's shoulder. It was much more red than orange by this point.

"You gotta help him. I think he was stabbed, he hasn't said anything except that he felt dizzy," Donut said frantically. "You don't mess up stab wounds, right? I saw you, I saw you help Church once. You can help, right? Right?"

"Uh. Yeah, I... I think I can..." Doc closed his eyes briefly. "Put him on the cot. Lie him down, keep him still. I'll... I'll try."

Donut nodded, leading Caboose over to the cot while Doc rifled through the cabinets. Donut was right. He'd managed to fix up stab wounds before. If he couldn't do that, he would have been kicked out a long time ago. It was one of those few things he could do right.

"Okay, remove the jacket. I have to clean it before... before stitching."

Donut peeled the blood-soaked jacket away from the stab wound. Doc winced. This one was jagged, twisted... not a simple stab wound at all. Doc was willing to bet everything he owned that it was O'Malley's work.

_Okay. I can do this. I can do this._

But when Doc located the anesthetic, his mind blanked on how much he was supposed to give. How much was it? He remembered giving the wrong amount once. He'd given far too much and ended up putting the patient into a coma and they hadn't come out of it...

"Doc, is he supposed to be this clammy?" Donut asked, his hand on Caboose's forehead. Caboose wasn't really reacting, he didn't even looked focused. Too pale, and the eyes were too glassy. "That's not good, is it?"

And now he was probably going into shock, too. Doc tried to calm down, he tried to remember his breathing exercises from yoga. In and out. In and out. In and—

"Doc!"

"Right, stitches. Stitches. Anesthetic. Stitches."

Doc still couldn't remember the amount of anesthetic. Maybe just skip it, it was better than risking death. Fine, just stitches.

"There's blood covering the floor down in the cells." Wash strode into the room, and his eyes landed on Donut immediately. "What happened to cover your cell in blood?"

"Not the time! Come on!" Donut said desperately.

Doc had the needle ready. He was ready. He thought he was, anyway. Although his mind was mostly a mass of panic. But he was ready. He could do this.

"Doc, I don't think I should have to tell you to do your job... but you're supposed to sterilize the needle," Wash said shortly. "Unless you're trying to infect him and kill him. If you are, then I'm sorry for interrupting."

Doc stared down at the needle for a moment. A long moment. Then he dropped it.

"I can't do it," Doc whispered.

Donut looked horrified. "Can't do it? You're a doctor!"

"I'm not a doctor! I'm... I'm..."

_I'm a murderer. I'm a fucking murderer!_

He couldn't do it, he didn't want to do it, he just wanted to curl up somewhere and hide, just ignore the whole mess until it went away. It'd probably be less harmful than actually trying to help.

Doc did the only thing that made sense to him at that moment. He ran.

* * *

"Wait! Doc!" Donut let go of Caboose briefly, but a whimper from that direction made Donut immediately hold onto his friend's arm again. "It'll be okay, Caboose. It'll be fine."

_No, it won't. The only thing close to a doctor in this place just ran for it. Why now? What do... I don't know anything about stitching up people...I can't do anything... It's Mama Julie all over again..._

"It'll... It'll be fine," Donut repeated shakily.

"If you're going to stand there, do something useful. They'll be time for cuddling later," Wash muttered. He reached down, picked up the needle that Doc had dropped. "Prop his legs up. A foot in the air, use some of Doc's books to hold them there."

"Wha—"

"Just do it!"

"Okay!"

Donut quickly grabbed some of the books lying around, tucking them under Caboose's legs. When he looked back at Wash, Wash had his back turned, sterilizing the needle in the sink. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"It's been a long time, but yes. I don't know anything about anesthetic or anything that'll block the pain, but I can do the stitches." Wash turned back, nodding his head at Caboose. "Make sure he's breathing."

"Yeah, he is."

"Good. Now get out."

"What? I can't do that, I gotta—" Donut protested.

"You're only a distraction, Donut. You can wait outside. Or wait in the yard. Or hide under Sarge's desk, for all it matters. But here you're only in the way. Out."

Donut didn't want to go, but he honestly couldn't think of a proper reason to stay. He'd been freaking out just a few moments ago because he had no idea what to do. And he still couldn't do anything.

When he tried to leave, a hand caught on his wrist. Caboose had grabbed it and was looking at him with wide, glassy eyes. He looked like he was trying to speak, but the words weren't coming out. Donut gripped Caboose's hand tightly for a second.

"I'll be just outside. Nothing's going to happen to you, alright?" Donut said as soothingly as he could manage, although his voice was trembling like mad. Caboose held on for a moment longer, then let go.

Donut quickly left, so Wash could get on with it. Once he'd shut the door behind him, Donut sat down, his back against the opposite wall. He didn't care how long it took. He wasn't moving until he was sure Caboose would be fine.

If he couldn't do anything useful, he could at least do that.

* * *

The awkward silence persisted. Grif hadn't budged from his position next to Simmons, head still resting on his shoulder. Simmons was picking at his fingernails. He always complained when Grif did that. It was one of his many peeves. Though he was nowhere near as angry as he got when someone drank milk out of the carton. Something that Grif had done almost every day that they had lived together.

By now they were both experts at making the other angry. But Grif was better at it, if only because Simmons was so neurotic and easy to annoy.

"How come you can pick at your fingernails, but I can't?" Grif spoke up. Simmons blinked, then looked down at his hands.

"Oh. Didn't realise I was."

Simmons was so insistent on keeping everything in perfect order, and he was so damn shy. He still wore underwear into the showers. Grif hadn't even seen him completely naked until several months after they were locked up, since Simmons was always insistent on keeping the lights off when it came to sex. He'd only foregone that rule when it was a choice between 'lights-on sex' and 'no sex.' Even that had taken several months.

Grif looked sideways at Simmons. He kept making a movement with his hands like he was going to go back to picking at his nails. But he'd stop himself and put his hands back down.

"Bored?"

"What? The silence is really fucking awkward."

"Yeah."

"So are we gonna talk this stupid thing out or aren't we?"

"Not ready yet."

"Fuck."

"Hey, I already apologized. It's your turn to speak."

"Speak about what?"

"Well, for starters... I don't even know why you got so pissy about what I said. I mean... you haven't even seen your family since you were, what, eighteen?"

"Mm."

"I mean, I got that I said something bad. I just don't know what was bad about it."

Simmons shook his head. "It was stupid. Just forget about it."

"Hey, that's a fucking cop-out. Come on!"

"Forget about it."

"Jerk."

"Ass."

Grif fidgeted. He really didn't get why Simmons' family was such a touchy subject all of a sudden. It never had been, before. Hell, Simmons had pretty much thrown the whole family situation out there in the first week after they'd met. It wasn't a sensitive subject.

He didn't even have any pictures. The only photos that Simmons had ever had in his room were of the two of them and Sister. That was it.

Shit, that really was it.

"You weren't mad about me saying that about your family, were you?" Grif said slowly. "You were mad because you worry about her, too. And I said you wouldn't get that."

"I told you it was stupid," Simmons muttered. "You were right. I couldn't possibly understand how worried you get over Sister. Doesn't matter if you guys are..." Simmons' ears went bright red with embarrassment. "...are the closest thing I've ever had to family. I really don't give a flying fuck about my biological one. But I couldn't possibly get what you and Sister have, could I? Because no matter how much I might want it... I was never—could never—really be a part of it. No space for your weird, neurotic roommate, right?"

Grif groaned. "That's what was bothering you? You're right, that's retarded." He knocked a fist against Simmons' head lightly. "Idiot. Don't you remember? Right before we got shoved in here? What I told you?"

"You told me to take care of Sister."

"Right. And even though you totally sucked at it..."

"Hey!"

"Dude, you got stuck in here with me instead. You sucked at it. But I would have never trusted you to protect Sister if I... didn't... you know. Trust me, you're part of it."

Simmons shifted a little, ears still bright red. "God, this fight would have been a lot easier if we'd talked like that at the start of it."

"Yeah. Then you wouldn't look like a panda."

Simmons rolled his eyes and slapped Grif lightly on the back of the head. He shifted again, turning a bit so his face was partly buried in Grif's hair. After a moment, he muttered, "Urgh, you smell like old orange juice."

"Just the pruno."

"Gross."

* * *

Donut had his forehead resting against his knees. Trying to block out the sounds. He could hear whimpers and sounds of pain. He could practically pinpoint whenever the needle went in from the sounds. But he didn't want to hear that much. He just wanted to know when Caboose would be safe.

It felt like an age before the infirmary door swung open again.

"He'll probably be fine. At least he's not in severe shock. Still needs proper medical attention, but he wouldn't have got that from Doc anyway." Wash looked mildly irritated, but then again he always did. "Guess this could have been worse. Anyway, you. Stay in there while I inform Sarge that we have no-one to attend the infirmary."

Donut climbed to his feet. "I can do that. Uh... thanks."

"Don't be thankful, Donut. It's just too much paperwork if an inmate dies around one of us. If it were up to me..." Wash trailed off. "Well, you get the idea. Now tell me, why is so much of his blood around your cot?"

Donut shifted nervously. "I don't know, I was asleep when it happened. He woke me up."

"Really. Forgive me if the word of a convicted murderer doesn't convince me. Even if you have everyone else in this prison convinced that you're harmless."

"I'm kinda a sissy, yeah," Donut said quietly.

"Just get in the room and make sure your friend doesn't die, alright? I have to go."

"What do I do if something happens?" Donut yelled at Wash's retreating back.

"It's not my problem."


	66. Chapter 62: Resignation

**Chapter Sixty-Two: Resignation**

"But... I don't remember anything about medicine or how to do stitches or... anything!"

"Eh, no-one's perfect."

"I just left someone bleeding to death up there right now!"

"Oh, give him some orange juice. He'll be fine."

The argument was loud, and Wash could hear it even before he reached Sarge's office.

"People keep dying around me!" he heard Doc yelling.

"I know, it's brilliant. Completely solved the over-crowding in cells. You've done a great service to this prison, Doc." Sarge seemed a little too cheerful and proud about that. No wonder so much of the prison staff was incompetent, with him doing the hiring.

When Wash strode into the office, he saw Sarge seated behind his desk, and Flowers using the desk itself as his seat. Cards were strewn about, like a pack of them had exploded. Sarge was still holding a few of them, as was Flowers. Doc turned around and, once he saw Wash, paled almost instantly.

"Um... What happened to..." Doc started.

"He's fine. Stitched up. Proper medical attention is probably needed," Wash said before Doc could finish. "But he'll live, provided that nothing else happens."

Doc covered his face, and Wash heard him breathe a huge sigh of relief. "That's... really good." He turned back to Sarge. "I'm doing more damage staying here than not having a doctor at all would be. I resign."

"No, you don't," Sarge said, in a matter-of-fact way.

"I... Yes, I..." Doc looked uncomfortable. Too afraid of arguments. Wash sighed, and crossed his arms. Sarge could be stubborn when it came to keeping staff. Perhaps he just wanted to maintain a level of insanity within the prison, or maybe it was because people who could withstand his incompetence were rare and hard to come by. But there was one thing that would always make him angry. If Doc really wanted to resign, then a lie wouldn't hurt his chances.

"He's been giving special medical treatment to Blues," Wash said quietly. It wasn't entirely a lie. If only because people that were considered 'blues' seemed to attract injuries more. Doc looked surprised and confused for a moment, until Sarge spoke again.

"What? Doc, you no-good rotten scoundrel!" he shouted, so loudly that Flowers winced and covered his ears.

"Don't you have an indoor voice, Sarge? I'd quite like to retain the use of my eardrums," Flowers said calmly.

"Can it, goldilocks! And as for you, you traitorous bastard... Well, can't let you stay here. Many deaths and little medical knowledge is one thing, but giving the Blues special treatment? You are fired."

"I was resigning," Doc said nervously.

"I said you were fired! Pack up your stuff, get out."

"Okay." Doc turned around, left the room. He hesitated a little at the door, but only for a moment.

"You know, you give special treatment to your Reds," Flowers pointed out, still holding his playing cards. "And if we don't have any medical staff when Vic stops by, then he'll probably be displeased. Which is never pleasant."

"I said shut your cakehole." Sarge scratched the stubble on his chin. "Er, you. Washington. You said you stitched up someone?"

"Yes."

"Great. Means you got the most medical training in this place. That makes you our temporary doctor."

"Okay. ...Wait, what?"

* * *

Donut was worried for two reasons. The first reason was that as soon as he had gotten close enough to Caboose's cot, Caboose had grabbed his hand and refused to let go. This would not have been a problem had Caboose not been clinging onto his arm so tightly that Donut was starting to lose all feeling in it. He hoped his fingers wouldn't go purple.

The second thing that was troubling him was that Caboose hadn't spoken a word, not since he woke Donut up. He'd made noises occasionally in response to Donut's talking, but he hadn't said anything coherent.

"Caboose? What's wrong?" Caboose blinked, then pointed at the fresh stitches on his shoulder. Donut sighed and shook his head. "I meant besides that." That only earned a shrug. "You want to talk about it?" That caused a nervous look. "Are you having problems talking?" A shrug. "You won't know unless you try. Come on, you're starting to worry me. Just say something. Anything?"

There was a long stretch of silence. Donut had given up waiting and was back to wondering if his hand was going to fall off from lack of air when Caboose finally said, "Muffin Man?"

"Oh, you spoke! Want to talk about what's troubling you?"

"No. I was not troubled. I was just afraid I could not talk, because I was having trouble earlier. But I said 'Muffin Man,' so I must be able to talk," Caboose said, nodding to himself.

"Why wouldn't you be able to talk? Did you hurt your throat as well?"

"No. I just have trouble sometimes. And it is very scary." Caboose's grip tightened even more. "Very, very scary. I do not want it to happen again. Are you okay? You are not hurt, are you?"

"Why would I be hurt? You're the one with all the stitches. Did O'Malley attack you?"

"How did you know?"

"I was guessing, mostly. He's the only guy I can think of that goes around stabbing people." Donut reached upwards and felt his own shoulder where O'Malley had slashed him years ago. Even though it had been shallow, the scar was still there. Caboose's eyes followed the movement that Donut made, and he frowned.

"O'Malley is very scary."

"Yeah. Well, anyone who stabs people is."

"It is not the stabbing that is scary," Caboose muttered. "Stabbing is not scary. It just hurts. And it has happened before. It always happens when I do something he does not like. Last time was a lot badder."

"That sucks."

"Yes. It does. But that was not what I was meant to talk about. I was meant to say something..." Caboose blinked a few times, and moved his arm. Unfortunately, that caused him to move his stitched shoulder. "Owie!"

"There, there." Donut stroked Caboose's hand gently, and Caboose clung tighter. Donut was now certain his hand was going to fall off.

"Church!"

"Hm?"

"That was what I meant to say. Church is not protected. And O'Malley is running around, and he will know Church is not safe and he will get all stabby again!" Caboose let go of Donut's arm and started to climb off the cot. "I have to go and find him."

"No, no, no. You have to rest. You've lost too much blood to be running around," Donut said sternly, trying to stop Caboose from getting up. It didn't matter much. As soon as Caboose climbed to his feet, he had to grab onto the cot post just to stay standing.

"Whoa. The room is... all whoosh," Caboose mumbled.

"Back on the cot, come on." Donut guided Caboose back to the cot, made him sit down. Donut flexed his hand a few times, trying to regain feeling, before placing it on Caboose's forehead. "You're still really clammy. You have to stay there, alright?"

"But... But, Church..."

"He'll be fine. I'll warn him, and he'll stay near the guards. That'll work, won't it?"

"Maybe." Caboose returned to gripping Donut's hand. "I am sorry for ruining your jacket."

"My jacket? Oh, right." Donut looked sideway at the sink. His blood-soaked jacket was sitting next to it. "That's okay. I have a spare one in my cell."

The infirmary door opened and Doc edged in. He looked once at the two of them, and then looked away.

"Um. Sorry. I just came to... get some things," Doc said quietly, walking towards one of the cabinets.

Donut stood up, although he couldn't move far due to Caboose still gripping his hand like he'd die if he let go. "What the hell, Doc? Why'd you run off? You know how to—"

"Donut. Please, I... I just don't want to talk about this, alright?" Doc said. He started removing a few items from the cabinets that weren't medical items. He dumped a jar of lollipops and another of butterscotch candies inside his bag. He picked up a bottle of mouth wash and studied it for a moment before placing it back on the shelf. "Don't need that. Not anymore."

"Mouthwash? Can I have it? I can't afford mouthwash from Wyoming," Donut said, momentarily distracted.

"Sure." Doc removed it from the shelf again and placed it on a counter not far from Donut. He started to gather his various books on yoga and tai chi. "I, um... I really am sorry. For... for running off and all. I... I panicked." Doc smiled weakly as he took down the duck-covered curtains that dangled around one of the cots. "Won't happen again."

"Hm." Donut looked at Caboose. "You forgive him?"

"What'd he do?"

"Never mind. It's fine." Donut said.

"Good to know." Doc spent the next few minutes taking down all the motivational posters.

"Did you get canned?" Donut asked, tilting his head as he watched Doc pack up anything that marked the room as his workplace.

"You really think I deserve to keep this job, after that?"

"Well..." Donut shrugged. "I guess not. But where are you going to go, then?"

"Haven't decided." Doc sighed as he tried to remove a poster that featured a diagram of a cow's anatomy. "I'll probably end up working at a coffee shop or something."

"Why a coffee shop?"

"I don't know. It was just what came to mind first, that's all." Doc crossed his arms, focusing on the 'hanging kitty' poster. He reached out, as if he was going to take it down, but then he pulled his hands back. "Alright. I'm done." He stacked up all the belongings he had located, scooped them up into his arms. "I'm really done." He looked around the infirmary. "Seems emptier."

"You did take down a lot of posters," Donut observed.

"Yeah." Doc made his way to the door. He pushed it open with his foot, looking back. "Good luck with prison and everything."

"Good luck with... coffee-making?"

"Appreciate it."

* * *

"Shit." Church scowled at his food, pushing it around with his fork. "He better not take long to get better. Having to stick near the guards really limits what I can do."

"Now we're limited to card games," Tucker sighed. "Card games are no fun. Church always loses. That's boring."

"Shut up."

"You do. I swear, you have the worst luck I've ever seen."

"Obviously. I'm stuck with you and Dye-Job, what's not unlucky about that?"

"Seriously. My hair isn't dyed anymore, you really need to stop with the nickname," Donut complained. He prodded at the vegetables. "Trade the green bits for the orange parts? I think they're carrots, I can't really tell. But I like the taste more."

"No can do."

"Aw."

"Anyway, Dye-Job," Tucker started. "You should probably stick near the guards, too. Doc might have sucked, but if we don't have a doctor at all..."

"We have Wash. He can do stitches."

Church jerked a bit, accidentally spilling his bowl of stew a little. "Wash is?" he groaned. "That insane douchebag is our doctor? Jesus, we're all gonna die."

"Really?" Donut questioned. "Is he that bad? I know he's tough, but..."

"No. No, Wash is bad news," Church insisted angrily, waving around his spoon. Donut looked at Tucker with his eyebrow raised, but Tucker just shrugged as if to say 'I don't know what his deal is, either.' "He's just... you know he's nuts, right?"

"I thought that was just insults."

"No, guy's a loony bin." Church stood up and pushed the remainder of his stew at Donut. "Fine, have the orange bits, I don't give a shit."

"Awesome," Donut said, tugging the tray of stew and vegetables towards him.

"Wait, where are you going?" Tucker asked. "You gonna walk around by yourself? Dude, that never works out well."

"It'll be fine, it'll just be for a minute. I wanna check this out, just confirm that Loony Bin Wash is really the doctor."

"Oh, don't believe me? Thanks," Donut grumbled.

"Of course he doesn't. Don't you remember how I got this?" Tucker said, gesturing at the scar across his face.

"Point taken."


	67. Chapter 63: Mop Chatter

**Chapter Sixty-Three: Mop Chatter**

Medication was late. When dinner was served, inmates who required medication with it were told to wait in the cafeteria due to some kind of hold up. It was sure to cause problems. Many of them required medication, for illness or a bad case of the crazies. But O'Malley didn't care about that. He was more curious as to what could make Doc be so late on medication. A good doctor he was not, but Doc was punctual when it came to dishing out tablets that he knew nothing about.

He was probably zoning out while staring at his ridiculous kitty poster. Still, O'Malley wasn't quite at ease. It was unlike Doc. Perhaps he was suffering ill effects from O'Malley's little talk. He hadn't meant for that little bombshell to land so soon, but once O'Malley had started he hadn't been able to stop.

He did hope it hadn't destroyed Doc completely. Or else there would be no self-esteem or good feelings and delusions left to chip at, and then what would entertain him?

Of course, O'Malley hadn't waited in the cafeteria. He was sure most of the insane inmates hadn't. He'd definitely seen the crazy kid that worshiped the flag sneaking out. He'd made claim that the tablets he'd been put on 'clouded the visions that the holy flag sent him.'

Rather than wait, O'Malley had decided to visit the infirmary and iscover why Doc was being held up. When O'Malley reached the infirmary door, however, he heard voices.

"How can they expect me to understand this? I can't even pronounce some of these." That was Wash's voice. "I mean, I know thorazine, depakote and trazadone, but most of the others are gibberish. Can you check the labels for... olanzapine? Huh, I wonder if Doc actually knew what that is."

"Don't make me read the labels. Reading hurts as it is, and the lettering is tiny." York's voice. O'Malley grinned slightly at the mention of reading difficulty. He did take pride in the pain caused to others. Especially when it had lasting effects.

But why were they in there? Perhaps Wash and York were delivering medication. But that didn't seem right. Wash never delivered medication and York did so rarely. Normally that duty was delegated to North and South.

"York. Can you just try to read the labels? We're running late as it is."

"Alright, alright. You're welcome, by the way."

O'Malley's curiosity got the better of him. Doc didn't leave until all the inmates were locked in their cells. If he wasn't in there... then O'Malley wanted to know why.

He shoved open the door. It was just Wash, York and a huddled lump on one of the cots that was probably a sleeping Caboose. Wash was looking through a tattered old notebook, the one which Doc used to keep track of all the inmate's medications. York was holding bottles of various colourful medications. When they saw O'Malley, York's expression got somewhat uneasy while Wash's was just plain hostile.

"Ugh. And we just got Church out of here," York sighed.

"You're supposed to be in the cafeteria. Like everyone else that requires medication," Wash said coldly. "Out."

"I'd prefer my medication from the doctor," O'Malley said, linking his hands behind his back. It helped hide the shaking, which always messed up any moment he tried to be intimidating. "You're even less of a doc than Doc, Wash. Where is he?"

Wash ignored him, turning a few pages of the notebook. "York, find O'Malley's medication. We have that sorted out already, don't we?"

"Yeah. Here they are."

"Thank you. I'd rather do it now than chasing him down later. I'll hold his arms. You get the pills in."

"Where. Is. Doc?" O'Malley repeated, even as Wash got up, grabbed his arms. O'Malley did struggle a little, but he didn't want to waste the energy. It was near impossible to get out of Wash's grip, he knew that from experience. And he was more focused on getting answers.

"I don't think it's any of your business."

_It is my business. Anything Doc does is my business._

"Come near me and I'll bite your fingers off."

York was holding the cup of medication, but he had yet to try and force them in. He sighed before saying, "Look. I know you're just going to come back demanding more answers if I don't tell you now, so Doc left. He resigned. And that's all I know about it, so don't come back demanding to know why."

_He... left?_

O'Malley was too focused on that thought that he didn't even try struggling as York forced his mouth open and tipped the pills in.

_He left? He left? How..._

Once the pills had been swallowed, Wash unceremoniously shoved O'Malley out the infirmary and shut the door behind him. O'Malley managed to keep his composure on the way back to his cell. If only because he wasn't quite sure how to feel. And even when he reached his cell, he didn't know what to do with himself for a long time. He just stood there.

_How... How could he?_

O'Malley's hands weren't just shaking from the aftereffects of bad medication.

_How could he do that? He... He wasn't supposed to leave. I..._

They were shaking from rage.

_I wasn't finished. He wasn't supposed to leave. I wasn't finished with him!_

O'Malley's shaking hands curled into fists.

_I wasn't finished with him! How... how could he? How dare he... how dare he leave..._

O'Malley didn't shout or yell or make any loud noise. He just raised his fist and smashed it into the wall. And again, and again. And with every punch, another angry thought.

_He left. He left! That... traitor. Traitor. That traitor! He left, how could he? How could he do that to me? I told him..._

O'Malley only stopped punching the wall once he'd scraped most of the skin off his knuckles in doing so. It hadn't helped get the rage out. If anything, he was even more furious.

O'Malley started pacing the cell. His feet didn't want to stand still.

His mind was ticking. Trying to think of ways to get Doc back. Because Doc wasn't allowed to just walk out. He rubbed his skinned knuckles and felt a trickle of blood dripping down his wrist. He paid no attention to it. It didn't matter.

If Doc wouldn't come back? O'Malley would just have to find him.

* * *

Donut had been planning to hide in his cell until lights out. The idea of O'Malley being more active made him a bit nervous. But as he approached his cell, he heard the squelching noise of someone using a mop and someone humming a tune absently. Donut peered into his cell to see North pushing a mop around, cleaning up the copious amount of blood that Caboose had left everywhere.

"Don't they get inmates to do this, normally?" Donut asked. North looked up.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, normally. I'm not even on duty. I was going home, and Sarge pointed at me and went 'clean up this area, I have no time to find an actual prisoner' and then he left. It's cool. It's always me or South that ends up with this stuff. Don't know why. Guess we're just unofficial janitors."

Donut watched for a few moments. Apart from his normal phobia against messes, the blood was making him queasy and bringing back old memories and he wanted it out of his cell as soon as possible. "Got a spare mop? I can help."

"No, but there's spare sponges in the bucket. Thanks, by the way."

"It's fine. It's my cell, and I don't want it to smell like... you know."

Donut got down on his knees to start cleaning. But god, the smell was ridiculously strong and it felt like it was seeping into the bricks. Donut tried to hold his breath but quickly realised that wasn't a proper option, and closing his eyes so that he didn't have to see the reddish-brown stains just made the smell worse.

God, he was kneeling in Caboose's blood, this was just... Donut could hear Caboose's whimpering in the back of his head and was suddenly reminded of his roommate once again, even though the only remote similarity had been that they were both pretty big, and he started thinking of the noises and the smell and how sticky it'd been—

"Donut? Donut's your name, right?"

"What?" Donut looked up at North, who was gazing down at him with concern.

"You just kind of froze." North stared at him for a few more moments before holding out the mop. "Look, give me the sponges. You can use the mop. You'll be further away from it, right? If you want, you can just go away until I'm done as well. I don't mind."

"No, no, it's... it's okay. But, uh... the mop works. Thank you." Donut handed North the sponges and started pushing the mop around. It was still horrible, but this way it was at least bearable.

"So, uh, Donut. Don't think we've really spoken before. You know my sister?"

"South, right? Yeah. I've seen her a little, haven't talked to her, either."

"You haven't, huh? I thought... never mind. You got any siblings?"

"No. If I ever did, I don't remember them. I was adopted."

"Ouch. Sorry."

"No, no, it's fine! I got two really nice mothers. It's cool, why are you apologising?"

"Well, I was trying to bring up a nice subject, and any subject that starts with 'my parents died and I don't remember them' seems kind of like a downer," North said, shrugging as he scraped away at some particularly stubborn bloodstains.

"Family's nice, though. Oh my god, are we trading family stories? None of the guys ever want to do that!" Donut said excitedly. "I tried once, but Church glared daggers at me about it, Tucker told me that most of his father figures were his mother's regulars, Grif said his mother joined the circus, Simmons just shrugged and said they were robots and Caboose started but then he clammed up once he started talking about his mother and said he didn't want to talk about it any more."

"Your friends have some messed up families. But as for me... weeeeell, silly family stories where the worst that happens is mild embarrassment are right up my alley," North said, smiling back.

The next fifteen minutes were spent happily comparing family stories. Just silly little domestic stuff. Stuff that Donut never realised he missed so much until he reminisced about sitting around the television and watching crime shows or soaps with his mothers while they ate cake. Listening to North and his twin stories made Donut wish he'd had siblings, or the chance to raise kids, or something like that. It sounded so adorable.

"—and then they dressed us both in identical frilly dresses and stuck a wig on my head, because apparently that was much cuter," North finished, as he wiped off the corner of the cell.

"Awwww," Donut cooed. "Do you have pictures?"

"Not ones you'll ever see."

"Darn it."

"Well, guess we're done." North dropped the sponge back in the bucket of water. Donut blinked and looked around.

"Really? I was caught up in the stories, didn't realise—"

"That's a good thing, right?" North said, grinning in a sly fashion.

"Yeah, it... yeah. Thanks."

"Not a problem." North took back the mop. "Don't like blood, huh?"

"Who does?"

"Well, I've never seen someone freeze up like that. Admittedly, everyone I know is a security guard."

"I just don't like kneeling in it, is all. Plus, it's... you know, it belongs to a friend, and I just... bad memories, you know?" Donut mumbled.

"Understandable, sure." North tilted his head and focused on Donut for a moment before saying, "I just don't see how you could be dangerous."

"Who said I was?"

"Ah, no-one. No-one. Okay, a couple of people, but... you know, that's just random theories. I guess... I mean, it's just..." North rested the mop against the wall for a moment, waving his hands around a little. "See, Wash thinks you're hiding something. Thinks you're suspicious. And normally that's just... you know, regular suspicious Wash. But South agrees with this, and those two don't get along on anything. I mean anything. The number of times I've had to ask Wash to stop calling South a bitch in front of me... or implying it, anyway..." North shrugged. "Sorry, I really digressed."

"Why would they think I'm hiding something?"

"Not a clue. If it makes you feel better, you seem alright to me. I mean, besides the roomie thing."

"Self-defence."

"Then you're completely cool with me."

"Awesome."

* * *

"How's Caboose doing?" Tucker asked, while trying to stick up Junior's pictures again. Several of them had fallen down, and Tucker was having trouble sticking them to the wall because the tape had worn out.

"Eh. Alright. Couldn't get him to wake up at the time, but he didn't seem in pain. Just kept mumbling about cowboys in his sleep. Dumbass. Anyway, then I got kicked out by Wash."

"Anything happen while you were checking shit out?"

"Nah. We're still all going to die, though. Wash even admitted that he doesn't know shit about medicine," Church grumbled.

"And Doc did?"

"Point taken." Church sat down on the ground, watching Tucker hang up the pictures. He was having trouble with one of Junior's later drawings. "Still upset about the Junior thing?"

"Fuck yeah I am. But... well. I'll deal with it. I'm not gonna go crying on your shoulder again or anything."

"Eh... It's... It's alright." Church rested his chin on his hands. "I kinda... get the whole 'kid is growing up too fast' thing. And that was on the outside, so... I guess it'd be a lot worse in here. Or something."

Tucker glanced back at Church briefly before focusing on the drawings again. "Thinking about your little bro?"

"Mmhm."

"You know... I just can't see you being big brotherly. Any time I try, it always ends up with you being insulting. 'You scraped your knee, Eddie? Oh, don't cry like that. Suck it up, you big baby.'"

"Fuck you."


	68. Chapter 64: Mouthwash

**Chapter Sixty-Four: Mouthwash**

O'Malley hadn't managed to sleep. The entire night had been spent trying to think of some way to get Doc back, while occasionally kicking things around his cell. It hadn't gone well, and he'd been punched in the face by Tex for making too much noise at one point. She was a feisty one... but he could mess with her later. She was always there.

Now he was stuck pacing his cell, trying to think of something—anything—to concentrate the amount of energy that was filling him at the moment. Anger was a powerful fuel source.

He wanted Doc to come back. But if it was possible, it wouldn't happen instantaneously. Doc was such a wuss that simply asking him to come back wouldn't work. O'Malley would have to provide incentive. If that didn't work, then O'Malley would find Doc himself, which would be much more difficult. But in the meantime... incentive.

Incentive. That was tricky. What could possibly convince Doc to come back? O'Malley scowled at the walls. He struggled with his thoughts on the matter. He was sure the answer would be something obvious, he just couldn't quite grasp it.

Violence, however, tended to make things more interesting, if not better. Perhaps he should just go with whatever violent impulses went through his head. Aside from his foremost urge to kick open the prison gates. That would just end with him being shot by whichever guard was on duty. Being shot dead would only be interesting for maybe a couple of seconds.

O'Malley had his fingers twisted in his hair, and was tugging on it. He barely noticed that it hurt, he just had to do something with his hands. As he did so, he heard someone walk past his cell.

It wasn't the footsteps that got his attention. It was the fact that he caught a whiff of spearmint as they walked by.

Spearmint. Just like Doc's mouthwash. Strong mouthwash – O'Malley could always smell it on him if he pestered Doc more than once in a day. O'Malley lifted his head, but the person who smelt of spearmint had already gone by. O'Malley jumped to his feet, stuck his head out of the cell in time to see Donut before he hurried out of sight.

The pastry's been stealing Doc's mouthwash. He's been taking what belongs to Doc. Or maybe Doc gave it to him. But he's been using what belongs to Doc, and what belongs to Doc belongs to me...

O'Malley didn't show his usual insane grin. He just couldn't make it appear on his face. But he felt a little better. He had something to focus on, now.

For what he had in mind, he'd need help. Need someone to hold the pastry. Time to see if Lopez was really worth having as a minion.

* * *

Solitary did have its advantages. For one, it was possible to share a cot without getting too many strange looks. Only for the guards who delivered food, and even then it wasn't as awkward as trying to snuggle with any inmate that walks by able to look in.

Of course, sharing a cot did have the difficulty of trying to move to get breakfast when a large Hawaiian man had fallen asleep on you.

"Grif! Come on, get off me."

"Nn..."

"Kinda difficult to breathe under here."

"Fuck off, 'm sleeping..."

"Food's here."

"I'm up."

"Fatass."

Minutes passed by, interrupted only by chewing noises. Breakfast was the only meal of the day where it was possible to tell what every part of the meal was, as opposed to the mystery meat served at lunch and the stuff served at dinner that was probably vegetables, although no one was ever sure.

Grif was prodding at his cereal, looking moody.

"It's gonna go soggy if you keep poking at it instead of eating," Simmons pointed out.

"I know. Just thinking."

"You can't eat and think at the same time?"

"Sure I can. It's just harder, is all."

"What are you thinking about?"

"Stuff."

"Hey, I told you what was annoying me."

"No, you didn't. I just guessed. You're not that difficult to figure out, Simmons."

"Well, sorry if I'm better at reading binary codes than at reading people. I'll trade my roll for your fruit."

"Deal. And nothing's really wrong. It just feels kinda weird." Grif pushed his cereal around the bowl for a while, before saying, "You ever feel like time is... kinda frozen in here?"

"Frozen how? Frozen like in Bernard's Watch or like in Groundhog Day?"

"What the fuck is Bernard's Watch?"

"I dunno, I saw it on the internet once. Kid had a magic stopwatch? I think it was British."

"Doesn't matter. The second one. It's... you know. Nothing ever fucking changes in this shithole. I mean, come on. Nine years, and the biggest change they've had is that they serve mystery meat instead of macaroni. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. Otherwise... same stuff happens everyday. Get up, work, lunch, yard time, bed time. That's all that ever happens. We still got the same guards, and Sarge still runs the place despite being an insane ex-soldier who still thinks he's fighting a war. And for the inmates, well... Always the same. You kiss ass, Donut talks continuously about crockpot recipes and Church just blackmails everyone in sight. Just one big fucking loop over and over and over...

"Meanwhile, look at the outside. It's going by at, like five times the fucking speed. People growing up there like fucking plants. Motherfucking plants getting knocked up and having kids and here we're stuck in a fucking loop."

"What?"

"I dunno. I miss the outside." Grif scowled at his cereal. "Sister's growing up, having kids... Doesn't need me. And the only change going on with me is that I'm getting really fucking old."

"Grif, you're thirty-four."

"Thirty-four is old. I'm aging. And I ain't aging like wine. I'm aging like pruno." Grif squinted at Simmons, before grabbing his face and tilting it left and right.

"Hey, quit it."

"You're getting older, too. Your hair is going grey."

"Only a little bit!" Simmons said defensively, shoving Grif's hands away. "So, I'm going grey early... runs in the family. I think. Dad did have a lot of hair dye in his closet." Simmons laughed lightly. "If I'd asked him, he would have denied it. Just like anything else that wasn't absolutely fucking perfect."

Grif dropped his cereal bowl and returned to the cot, flopping down on it with a sigh. Simmons sat down next to him.

After a stretch of silence, Grif said, "This place really does suck."

"Could be worse."

"Yeah, you're right. I could have been stuck here without you. That would have been lame."

Simmons ducked his head, his ears bright red from embarrassment. "Heh. If we keep talking about this, it's gonna go down a sappy route."

"Yeah. A really girly sappy route," Grif grinned. He swung one leg over Simmons, rolling over until he was straddling him. "So... Make-up sex?"

Simmons wrinkled his nose. "Honestly, have you ever put less effort into an offer of make-up sex? And you haven't brushed your teeth since you drank all that pruno."

"Neither have you. Do you care?"

"Well, I care a little. It's gonna taste gross. ...But I'll live."

* * *

"Uh."

Donut raised his eyebrow at the mess the infirmary was in. Most of the furniture had been stacked up at one side of the infirmary. The stack of furniture was covered in blankets. Caboose was sitting on top of it, wrapped in a blanket and grinning.

"What's up with the stack of furniture?"

"I made a fort. It has blankets," Caboose said cheerfully. "Do you want to sit on it?"

"Wash actually let you build a fort?" Donut looked towards the other side of the infirmary. Wash was sitting at one of the counters (which Caboose probably had been forced to leave behind, given that they were nailed to the floor) and his head was buried in his arms.

"I don't care anymore," Wash mumbled into his arms.

"Did you ever?"

"Well, if it was possible to care less... I do."

"He gave me lots and lots of orange juice and he said it would help me go to sleep. It hasn't happened yet," Caboose said, rocking back and forth on top of his fort. "Come on, Captain Buttercrust! We can sit here and we can drink orange juice and... and pretend we are on a pirate ship. And it will be fun!"

"I'm guessing you feel better than you did yesterday."

"Yes. I do. I do not feel shaky anymore, and it still really hurts but it is okay because now I have orange juice and you are here. I am just missing Margretta, and then everything... would be awesome."

"Oh, right. I'll bring her up next time I visit."

"God, he's never going to leave if you do that," Wash muttered.

"I'll leave. I can leave now," Caboose insisted. "Church needs protecting from bad men."

"No, no, no. You already tore at your stitches when trying to move the cot. If you run out there and tear your stitches, I'll be the one in trouble."

Caboose pouted and crossed his arms, as Donut clambered onto the fort.

"Ooh. Comfy," Donut said, poking the blankets. "These are a lot nicer than the blankets down in the cells."

"Yes. You cannot make a fort down there. No good blankets and not enough other things." Caboose stretched his arms, and then yelped when he accidentally stretched the stitches. "Ow! Anyways, I have not been able to make a good fort since... since before I left home. Me and my little sisters made a really, really good one. It had garden gnomes and everything."

"That. Sounds. Awesome."

"It was awesome. There was... was garden gnomes. And comfy sofamables. And... and... uh..." Caboose blinked and yawned loudly. "There was other things."

"Cool." Donut flopped backwards onto the blankets. Caboose did the same.

"I'm tired again. I only took a nap... not long ago," Caboose mumbled.

"It's fine. You can go to sleep."

"But I do not want to..."

Within a few minutes, however, Caboose was curled up on top of the fort and snoring. When this happened, Wash lifted his head.

"Finally. Those sleeping pills take far too long to work," he said.

"You drugged him?"

"Only a little bit. It's for his own good, really. Just a few sleeping pills in his orange juice. If you drank any of it, then you'll probably fall asleep soon."

Donut frowned, sat up. "I don't like it."

"The orange juice?"

"No, I meant you drugging people when they annoy you."

"Would you prefer me to pepper spray them? All the people I've seen working in the infirmary have done it. There's precedent. Now out, go on."

"Fine. Jerk," Donut muttered under his breath. He slid off the fort and left, continuously grumbling under his breath. Only to find Lopez waiting for him just a little bit outside.

"Hey, Lopez! Haven't seen you around much. How you doing?"

Lopez didn't reply, he just grasped Donut's shoulder and steered him down the walkway.

"Hey, what's going on?"

"_Someone wants to see you._"

"Someone? Like who? Who wants to see me? Come on, you don't have to be so quiet." Donut squirmed around to try and see Lopez. "Come on, Lopez. You can talk to me. I understand what you say. Well, most of it."

Lopez stayed quiet, eventually reaching out to open a door. He shoved Donut in.

"Whoa. Hey, no shoving. You could just ask—why are we in the laundry closet?"

Lopez shut the door behind him. "_Forgive me. But he was very insistent._"

"Who's playing golf?"

"_You're an idiot._"

"Yes. I think we can all agree with that," said a voice behind Donut. Donut's eyes widened.

"Oh crap."

"Oh crap is right, little pastry," O'Malley said.

* * *

O'Malley wanted to grin. Grin and laugh in anticipation for what awaited the pastry. But he just couldn't bring himself to do so. He just wasn't in the mood for laughing. He was still too mad. And looking at Donut just made him angrier.

The spearmint smell was getting on his nerves. It was part of Doc's smell, and it wasn't the only part of Donut that reminded him of Doc.

Donut was trying to back away from him, but he just backed into Lopez, who was blocking the door. "Come on, Lopez. Let me out! What are you doing following him around?!"

The bargaining and trying to ask instead of getting his way through violence. The small frame and soft hands, especially compared with the inmates and the guards. Similar hair colours. And now that Donut was cornered, he was nervous. That nervousness and fear... Just like Doc, no matter how many times O'Malley cornered him into the infirmary.

Of course, there was one thing that could ruin that illusion. When Donut, upon realising Lopez wasn't going to move, chose to instead jump at O'Malley. He wasn't prepared for that. But the blow to the face ruined any illusion that it was Doc standing in front of him.

"You jerk!" Donut shouted, fists waving around wildly. He struck O'Malley a couple more times before his hands latched onto his hair. "This is what you get for hurting Caboose, you... you... assface!" He tugged angrily at O'Malley's hair, trying his best to fight back in his own girly fashion. And it did hurt a little.

Came to an end quickly when O'Malley pulled a screwdriver out. Donut refused to let go of O'Malley's hair, even when catching sight of it. But a slash at the hands quickly changed his mind. Donut let go, edged back. Holding his hand, trying to stop the gash in it from bleeding.

"You think you can stop me with... with hair-pulling?" O'Malley took a step towards him. "Stupid, stupid pastry. That's not how it works."

Donut took another step back, at the same time reaching to pick up one of the socks lying around the laundry room. Perhaps to stifle the bleeding. O'Malley didn't give him the chance. Instead, he lashed out and hit Donut in the stomach with as much force as he could manage.

"That's not how it works. I'll tell you how it's supposed to work." O'Malley punched Donut again, before gesturing for Lopez to come over, to hold Donut's arms behind his back. Lopez did so, without making a sound. Just quietly twisting Donut's arms behind his back before setting his gaze at the ceiling, so he didn't have to watch.

"Ow-ow-ow! Lopez, come on! I thought we were friends!" Donut whined. He shut up when O'Malley held his screwdriver to his throat.

"You are going to suffer here. As much as I feel like. Then I'm going to take a trophy, and whatever is left of you is going to be left around for someone to find and take to the infirmary," O'Malley hissed. "Whether you die during that process depends on how much you cooperate, pastry."

Donut was shivering with nervousness. He let out a high, nervous giggle as he tried to twist out of Lopez's grip. "Is that so? So if I just lie down and let you chop me to pieces, I'll be fine? Well, you know what? S-screw you!"

"I'm going to pretend I misheard that. Would you like to repeat a more sensible answer?"

"_Don't be an idiot, fruit,_" Lopez whispered.

"I-I said... I said screw you! Stabbing at me and tricking me is one thing. But I draw the line when you hurt my buddies. So you can go stick your head in Flowers' gun barrel, O'Malley. Screw you! Screw you too, Lopez! Both of you can go get fucked in the showers, you badly-dressed jerks!"

"_You idiot._"

O'Malley didn't reply at all. He just gripped the screwdriver tightly and started jamming it into whatever parts of Donut he could reach.

The next few minutes... O'Malley couldn't quite recall them properly. Normally O'Malley would soak in every detail of the violence he performed. But he was half-stuck in his own mind. Thoughts of Doc were bleeding into his thoughts about beating Donut as badly as he could. And if he let those thoughts mix enough... he could almost imagine it was Doc being held there with his arms twisted behind his back.

Soon, that's what O'Malley was seeing. And the anger just came pouring out and nothing in the world could have stopped it. He attacked and slashed and carved Donut up like a Thanksgiving turkey, sometimes taking a break to lash out with his fists and try to smash Donut into a little pulp.

_That's for all the whining and protesting over the years, and that's for drugging me, and that's for messing up my hands, and that's for being a damn pacifist, and... and that's for running off! And that's for forgetting that you belong to me!_

And he wasn't sure if he was screaming in his head or if he was actually saying it out loud. All he could hear was those thoughts and the blood pounding in his own eardrums. Beyond that, he could faintly hear the sounds of pain Doc—Donut—was making, and it filled him with this raw, savage glee. But occasionally he would feel his victim struggling, trying to twist out of Lopez's grip and, once, trying to bite him once O'Malley's hands came into reach. That would shatter the illusion, because Doc never truly fought back, and then he would be beating Donut for shattering the illusion...

And then he stopped. O'Malley couldn't even tell why. He just ran out of rage. He just stopped, and gazed down at the shivering, bleeding, only half-conscious pastry. O'Malley looked down at his own hands. He couldn't remember the last time he just... ran out of violence. He just felt tired.

"Do you regret saying that now, pastry?"

Donut coughed. Red came up with it. With what looked like a tremendous effort, he looked up. Blood was dripping down his chin and on to the floor. He glared at O'Malley and then, with what looked like all the energy he had left, he spat in his face.

Lopez shook his head with a sigh, his eyes still firmly fixed on the ceiling. O'Malley wiped the blood off his face before twirling the screwdriver in his hands. "Hm. Perhaps you'll regret it once I've taken my trophy. If you live long enough to.

"So, tell me. Which ear would you prefer to keep?"


	69. Chapter 65: Angels

**Chapter Sixty-Five: Angels**

"Oh... Jesus Christ on a bicycle."

There were many things that no guard, including North, wanted to see while patrolling the prison. Any form of violence or sexually frustrated inmates going at it in their cells (either with another inmate or alone, either way was awkward) were examples. But finding a heavily bleeding body bundled up in a corner of the laundry closet... that was the second-worst thing North had seen in this prison. (The worst had been Phil's corpse after the riot.)

"Jesus," North muttered, flicking the lights on and trying to see if the body—oh god, was that Donut?—was still moving. "Donut? Can you hear me?"

Donut didn't move, even when North prodded him nervously. Didn't move when North turned him over, either. His hair was almost completely drenched in red and his face was chalk white underneath all the blood. North checked his wrist. There was a pulse. A weak one, but it was there.

"Jesus... Donut! Can you hear me? Jesus. Jesus Christ." North turned Donut's head a little. Most of the blood was coming from the left side of his head, although he was bleeding badly from the mouth and several other places around the torso and arms. "God, this is brutal. Can you hear me? Donut?"

There was no movement. But there was a tiny whimper. North grabbed one of the jumpsuit jackets he had dropped, pressed it to the side of Donut's head.

"Okay... okay, you're not dead... yet... Alright. Don't worry... I'll get you to the infirmary. It's a good thing you're tiny." North scooped up Donut in his arms and ran for the infirmary.

* * *

Everything was really bright. Just white light. Donut felt like he was floating.

_Am I dead? I must be dead. That would explain the flying sensation. Does this mean I didn't go to Hell? Awesome._

Floating was actually quite a nice feeling. Whoosh. Whoosh. Although the nice feeling was ruined by the overwhelming feeling of pain. Pain everywhere.

_I probably did go to Hell. Dead people don't feel pain unless they're in Hell. I wonder if that whole thing about God hating gay people is true. Hope not. But if it is, God's a douche._

Donut tried to move, but all he could manage to do was twitch a bit, and even that doubled the pain. He whined a little. His throat felt clogged, and when he whined it felt kind of bubbly. Not in a pleasant way.

"Just hang in there, Donut, we're nearly there..."

Who was that? He realised that hands were supporting him. It felt like he was being cradled by someone. Kind of nice. So he wasn't flying after all, someone was just carrying him. ...Was the guy who was carrying him flying?

_Hm. So I'm being carried by an angel? Cool._

"Do I get wings?" Donut tried to ask. He choked on the words, though. The liquid that was filling his mouth made it hard to talk.

_I hope Heaven has painkillers._

There was a slamming noise, and Donut felt himself rock slightly. Everything got brighter. Donut hadn't thought it was possible, but it had. It hurt.

"Wash, we need an ambulance! Right now!"

"What happened?"

"Can't you tell from the body I'm holding?! There was an attack! Ambulance. Now."

"Okay. Put him down. Call the ambulance, I'll try and stop the bleeding."

There was a strange scraping noise and then Donut landed on something soft. Clouds. Probably clouds. Clouds always looked really soft. One of Donut's only memories before the orphanage was being on a plane. He'd only been two or three, it couldn't have been older than that. All he could remember was the clouds. They were fluffy and soft-looking, and someone had said they were angel beds.

"He's bleeding too much. I don't even know where to start with the stitches. When's the ambulance coming?"

"I'm checking, I'm checking! Sarge is going to be furious that we didn't ask, but—"

"No time. We'll just tell him later. Donut's a Red, he'll be fine with it."

_There's a sergeant up here, too? Man, Heaven is sounding a lot more different than I thought. Wait. The voice. I've heard these voices before._

Everything was still far too bright. If Donut opened his eyes just a little (but they were so, so heavy) he could see a dark shape above him.

"I think he's awake. Can you hear me, Donut?"

"Wash? You're an angel?" Donut mumbled. Although it came out more like 'wahyurgel?'

"I'll take that as a yes." Donut saw the dark shape shift a bit, and felt pressure put on his stomach. The brightness was becoming less intense, and his vision was getting dark around the edges. "I doubt it will make you feel much better, but I don't intend to let you die yet."

_Aren't I already dead?_

"Just try to stay awake."

_But... I'm so tired... _

"Come on, stay with me. They'll be time for napping later."

"The ambulance will be here in fifteen."

_So tired... and this cloud is so soft..._

"Fifteen is too long. He looks almost dead already."

"What do you want me to do, fast forward time around the ambulance?"

"No! Just help me stop the bleeding! Donut! I said stay awake! Don't you even think about it."

_Just a short nap..._

"Don't you die on me. You're not allowed to! Not after... not after what you did... You can't die until I say you can!"

_Just a..._

* * *

"You probably shouldn't be carrying that around," Wyoming said conversationally. "A guard might ask to see I'm sure you're proud of your handiwork, old chap, the artistic qualities would be lost on them."

O'Malley turned the rolled up sock over in his hand. He was keeping his trophy inside it. He was seated on the ground, scowling at his wrapped-up prize. "I just realised something."

"Oh?"

"I was going to show this to Doc. But I have no way to do so. Not until I can find an escape. And by then, it would have probably wasted away," O'Malley muttered.

"Perhaps I could help with that. I can supply you with various items that would help you escape. Or I could find a method of sending your trophy to him. But I very much doubt you have his home address."

O'Malley crossed his arms and continued scowling. "Unless you have a method of escape that is quick, then none of your supplies will be useful at the moment."

Wyoming took a puff of his cigarette, blowing out smoke rings. "I know more about this prison than most of the staff does, my friend. But without outside influence, I have no quick method of escape. I would have left long ago, if I did." Another smoke ring went floating over the yard. "However. I do have something useful that might help." Wyoming reached into his jacket, showed O'Malley what he was hiding.

"Where did you get that?" O'Malley's eyes were focused on the small, silvery object that Wyoming was holding. And he wasn't focused on it simply because it was a shiny object.

"It belongs to North Dakota. I may have had one of the pickpocketing inmates swipe it from his pocket in exchange for a carton of cigarettes." Wyoming turned the purple mobile phone over in his hands, before slipping it back into his jacket pocket. "Not that useful to most, of course, given that there are already phones within the prison. But of course, if you have any outside contacts and don't want your call monitored..."

"I don't. I have no friends out there," O'Malley interjected.

"Pity, it would have made escape easier. But alternatively... I'm led to believe such phones have a camera function on them?"

"...Yes. Yes, it could work." A small smile flickered over O'Malley's face. "What's the catch, then? There's always a catch."

"The catch?" Wyoming scratched his chin. "Well, I'd be quite interested if you found a method of escape. Forty-five years is a long time to be trapped in one prison. But otherwise... If I'm perfectly honest, I haven't the faintest idea on how to operate it. I am not familiar with this sort of technology." Wyoming dropped his cigarette, stepping on it and crushing what was left. "So I have no use for it. Although I still wish to sell it to someone. So, you can either buy it... Although the price will be quite high, due to the nature of this contraband... Or you can borrow it for, shall we say, two days?" Wyoming searched through his pockets for another cigarette. "Two days. Enough for you to make the call to your missing plaything. I'm sure that works out well for all of us."

O'Malley considered it for about a second. "Deal. Hand it over."

"If I don't get it back..."

"Yes, nasty consequences. I'm aware of your rules, Wyoming."

"Glad to hear it. Explaining the rules of the trade does get rather tiresome." After handing the mobile phone to O'Malley, Wyoming lit his cigarette, gazing above the grey walls. He saw flashing lights. "Ah. The ambulance."

O'Malley looked at the lights as he hid the phone in his pocket. His mood was lifted. He could appreciate the bloody mess he had made of Donut, now. He felt much better about the whole Doc thing. He was making progress on it. He'd have Doc back soon enough. He was sure of it.

For the first time since Doc had run, he let a proper maniacal grin cross his face.

* * *

"Hey, check it. Ambulance lights," Tucker said, nodding at the red and blue lights that were visible beyond the walls.

"Hm?" Church looked up briefly. "Yeah, don't care as long as it's not one of us. Can you just shuffle the fucking deck already?"

"Alright, man. Although if there was a major beating, we can find out who did it and blackmail the hell out of them," Tucker said cheerfully.

"Yeah. Unless the attacker was someone who doesn't give a shit about being blackmailed." Church looked around the yard again, as Tucker shuffled the deck in a needlessly dramatic fashion. Said that shuffling the cards in a fancy way looked more snappy.

He spotted O'Malley sitting next to Wyoming. Grinning. That wasn't any different than usual. However... he was holding a rolled-up sock.

That immediately set off Church's inner alarm. Just because it was so out of place to be carrying around rolled-up socks. But socks would be a nice place to keep something small that he didn't want to be seen...

And O'Malley liked trophies. Church remembered some of O'Malley's activities on the outside. He'd witnessed O'Malley removing body parts... usually ears or fingers, although he also removed eyes if he had enough time to run home and preserve them. Even seen a little shoebox that O'Malley had kept preserved body parts in.

Church looked around the yard once more. Trying to single out familiar faces. Tucker was right next to him, of course. Tex was patrolling the yard. Caboose would still be in the infirmary. Grif and Simmons were in solitary.

Donut was missing.

"Where's Dye-Job?"

"He said something about visiting Caboose or something. I don't fucking know, I'm not a babysitter."

Ambulance. Rolled-up sock. Missing Donut. Two and two... plus two.

"Shit. I have to check something," Church muttered.

"Again? Can I come? I don't want to be stuck out here by myself. It'll be hella boring," Tucker complained.

"No. Stay near the guards. Stick near Tex. Don't. Leave. Their. Sight." Church stressed each word of his last sentence, before running back towards the prison.

_God, I hope I'm wrong about this. If O'Malley's chopping off 'trophies' again... don't know what it means, but it can't be anything good._


	70. Flashback: Chapter Four

**A/N: In case it's not obvious, these flashbacks aren't entirely chronological. Well, they are for each separate character, but they're not happening at the same time. For example, the current Church portions are actually happening the year Donut was born, and thus a while before his part in Flashback 1. Wasn't sure if I ever explained it. **

**Incidentally, the order each character's part is in is ordered by the age of the character in question, in the MR!verse anyway. Hence why it starts with the eldest, Church, and ends with Donut, the youngest. **

**Flashback – Part Four**

"Can I go upstairs and play with Sigma again? It was fun, and he said he would have even more colours next time!" Eddie babbled, clinging to Church's hand. His good mood since last leaving Sigma's apartment the night before had lasted into the next day. At times, it almost felt like they weren't on the run. Right now, it felt like they were just taking a stroll. Even though that stroll led right back to Jimmy's place.

"We'll see. Depends."

"Can we come see him a lot?"

Church let out a sigh. "I don't know," he lied, while in reality he was thinking '_Hell no, we can't hang around criminals.'_ "We'll see."

"He's a nice man."

Church personally found him mildly creepy. As well as far too interested in trying to die his hair blond. Church tugged on his newly dyed hair, which was a light brown. "Look. We'll talk about this later, alright?"

"Okay."

Honestly, Church would consider hanging around Sigma if it kept Eddie this happy and distracted from the whole 'on-the-run' and 'we-just-killed-your-own-father' thing. But no. Couldn't risk it. Too much heat.

"Leo. Leo. Leo. Leo. Leo..." Eddie tugged on Church's hand insistently. "Leo. Leo. Leo."

"What?"

"I saw a ninja."

"...Wait, what?"

Church looked at the rooftop that Eddie was pointing at. He couldn't see anything.

"You can't see ninjas, Eddie. That's why they're ninjas, because they're so damn sneaky," Church told him.

"I saw someone. And they were in black and were wearing stuff on their head."

"Right..." Church glanced back at the roof again. Still nothing. He felt uneasy, though. Part of him said that Eddie was probably making a big deal out of something either imaginary or just a guy in a black jumper. Still... there was always the chance it wasn't.

Church reached down and picked Eddie up so he could speed up his walking without making his little brother tired. He was planning to ditch the tiny motel room they'd been staying in and run a bit more once they had the fake identification. Find somewhere that seemed relatively safe. This city didn't seem right. Too much crime and crazy people and other class-A weirdoes.

They'd find somewhere safe. Then, maybe, they could stop running. Maybe they could have a normal life.

* * *

On the rooftop that Eddie had pointed at, the 'ninja' was lying flat on the roof and trying to avoid being spotted again. She adjusted her balaclava and headset, tucking in any strands of red hair that had escaped the black fabric, before tapping the headset and speaking.

"See anything, rookie?"

"Not a thing. There's a van out the back."

"What sort of car?"

"Uh. A black one."

"I meant the type."

"I'm not good with vans, Caro—"

"Hey!" the ninja peered over the roof, watching the street below. "No names on the headsets. What if someone is listening in?"

"Right, uh... sorry. Anyway... black, tinted windows. Can't see the inside of it."

"Suspicious. Get the licence plate down."

"Roger."

Carolina shook her head and crawled slightly closer to the edge of the roof, watching the two boys wandering the streets. One of them was just barely an adult, but the other was a small child. That always complicated things. She could shoot a child if she really had to (though she wouldn't enjoy it) but she doubted the rookie could. New agents always had trouble with it.

"I got a positive visual on the target. Brown hair, not black, but he looks the right age. We can shake him and Jimmy down for where Delta is. Shouldn't be tough. He's got a little kid with him. Tri-coloured hair." Carolina squinted. "Similar facial features. Probably related. So we point a gun at the kid and the other will talk."

"At the kid?" the rookie asked nervously. Carolina rolled her eyes. Every time.

"Yes. At the kid. Stay where you are and keep an eye on the fire exit. Make sure no-one tries to slip out."

"Roger that."

"One more thing?"

"Yeah?"

"...Don't mess up."

"I'll try."

"You better do more than try. I'll be heading into the building in five." Carolina switched off her headset. Working with rookies was the worst. They were inexperienced and often got killed quickly. This one knew the city streets fairly well and had some combat training, but he was still far too incompetent for this kind of work.

Still, maybe he'd improve. If he didn't get shot in the face first.

Carolina returned to gazing at the building. She couldn't see much movement.

* * *

"Another hour? Fucking bullshit," Church snapped.

"Sorry, Church. Mickey's putting the final touches on it." Jimmy was reclining in his chair, feet rested on the little free space the desk had. He was holding a photograph in his hands, gazing down at it absently while Church yelled at him.

"You said it'd be ready by now! I don't want to hang around longer than I have to!"

"You want it to be cheap and quick and obviously fake? Or do you want a professional job?"

"Alright, alright." Church waved his hands in the air angrily. "Whatever, just get it done. Sigma upstairs?"

"Yeah, he's there. If you're looking for some more work, he might know some. He's got connections."

"No way. No more criminal shit."

"Heh. That's what they all say." Jimmy looked down at the photograph he was still holding. "Wanna see a picture of my girlfriend?"

"Not really."

"Figured I'd just get into the illegal 'making-identification-stuff-for-people' business until I could afford a proper house. So I could get down on one knee and ask her to marry me. Been five years. Still in this business, and still living in a tiny apartment with another guy." Jimmy shrugged. "Don't be surprised if something like that happens to you. Can't just get out of the business, it ties you to too many suspicious people."

"I'm not a criminal."

"Of course not. And yet... you're here."

"Shut up." Church glanced at the ceiling. "I'll be back in an hour. Might as well let Eddie hang out with Sigma for a while."

"Cool. I'll send Mickey up when he's done."

"Hey, we're out of ink. You got any around?" Mickey called, entering the room where they kept... well, basically everything, stacked up in piles. Jimmy shook his head, still holding the picture of his girlfriend. He hadn't spoken to her in a couple of days. Maybe he should call her...

Someone knocked on the door.

"Can you get that, Mickey?"

"Hey, I'm actually busy. You're just mooning over your girlfriend..." Mickey grumbled, walking over to the door and pulling it open. "Holy shit!"

Before Jimmy could even look up, a gunshot rang out. When he looked up, Mickey was already falling to the ground, splattering red everywhere.

"Bloody murder! Bloody mur-" Mickey was cut off mid-scream by another gunshot, this time to the head.

Jimmy stumbled to his feet, dropping the photo of his girlfriend. "Mick—" He cut off when the gun was pointed at his face.

"Don't move."

Jimmy couldn't see the face of the figure standing in the doorway, seeing as she was wearing a balaclava. But he recognised the voice.

"Carolina? What... What the fuck are you doing?! Wha... Mickey..."

"Quiet, Jimmy." The gun was pointed at him. "You've been lying to us. You're lucky I don't shoot you on the spot. You cooperate and I might let you live. Depends on if I like your answers or not." She nodded her head at an empty chair. "Sit. I got some questions for you. And you don't answer right, it will hurt. ...I said sit."

Jimmy's legs carried him to the chair, seemingly by themselves. His eyes didn't leave Mickey's body. Carolina still had the gun barrel pointed directly at his face. She reached up and touched her headset.

"Mickey's dead and Jimmy is here. Keep an eye out for the other two." Jimmy couldn't hear the reply, but Carolina turned the headset off afterwards. "Now. Where's Delta? Tell me. Or you'll die just as easily as Mickey did."

* * *

"You're even more grumpy when it comes to the creative pursuits than Delta is," Sigma remarked, dressed in pajamas, as he dunked a large paint brush into a bucket of red paint. He had smaller orange and yellow tins nearby, but at the present he was using a large amount of red to paint what seemed to be a man set on fire. "If you must wait in my apartment, you might as well paint. I don't mind."

"I'll pass," Church muttered, arms crossed.

"Worse than Delta," Sigma repeated.

"Please, Leo?" Eddie started pouting at him, while holding a paintbrush that Sigma had handed to him. Church groaned and fixed his gaze on the ceiling.

"Eddie, we can't stay for that long. We have to leave as soon as the identification is finished. There's no time for painting."

"Nonsense. There's always time for painting," Sigma insisted. Church opened his mouth to point out that this was ridiculous, when they heard the gunshot. Sigma immediately turned away from the painting of the burning man, dropping the brush on the table.

"Were you followed?" he asked, his voice still the same calm monotone despite the fact that he was now hurredly wiping off his hands and heading for the bedroom.

"Bloody murder! Bloody mur—"

There was another gunshot.

"What the fuck was that?" Church yelled.

"Keep your voice down and stay as silent as possible," Sigma whispered, just before he entered the bedroom and shut the door behind him. Eddie put dpwn his brush and hid behind Church, clinging to his hoodie.

"What's happening, Leo?"

"I don't know. Just... don't panic, alrig—Jesus!"

Sigma had left the bedroom again. He was still wearing pajamas, but he'd put a suit jacket and sneakers on and was holding what was a very large and impressive paint gun. All in all, he looked the epitome of ridiculous.

"That's a paint gun," Church said flatly. Sigma's expression was mildly annoyed and embarrassed.

"I don't keep real guns in my apartment. This is all I have."

"Fuck. Is this some fucked up game of paintball or something?"

"Unfortunately, no." Sigma handed the paint gun to Church. "Hold this, please." He headed for the little kitchen section of the apartment. "Eddie, can you go to the bathroom? We're about to go on a cart trip and I don't want to have to stop for bathroom breaks." Eddie nodded and trotted into the bathroom. Once he was gone, Sigma continued. "If I'm right, we don't want to be caught by whoever is downstairs."

"Who the fuck is that, then?"

"If I'm correct, agents of the Director. It's a long explanation and there's no time." Sigma opened some kitchen cabinets and started removing various jars of food. "But we also don't want them getting whatever is down there. Jimmy knows everybody. And he has it all written down."

"Who the fuck cares? If we're in fucking danger, we should fucking run!"

"Would you say that if I told you that Jimmy has a file on his desk about you and Eddie? Your fake IDs, your real names... and what you're running from."

"What? How—"

"A little research goes a long way." Sigma pulled out several bottles and started mixing liquids, almost like he was making a cocktail. "I'm going to give you this. It will start a fire. It'll quickly burn up whatever incriminating documents are down there." He finished mixing alcohol, shook up the final bottle and then, using a pair of scissors he had lying around, cut off a strip of his pajamas. "It'll likely kill Jimmy, too. But we have to be pragmatic."

"This is fucking crazy. You're crazy. ...Is that a freaking molotov cocktail?"

"I don't keep proper explosives in my house, Leonard. What would the landlord say?" Sigma hurried to the door and opened it. He pointed right. "The fire exit is that way. But there's likely someone watching the exit."

"So, you're going to take on whoever these agent guys are... with a paint gun and a flaming bottle? That's insane."

"There's a fine line between genius and insanity."

"Yeah, but we ain't even fucking close to that line, we're five miles beyond it in the centre of Fucking Crazy Town!" Church snapped.

"Now, you want Eddie to be safe. Right?"

"No shit."

Sigma took back his gun and handed Church the molotov cocktail. "Then you'll have to throw this. I'll make for the exit with Eddie. Before you protest," Sigma added quickly, once Church opened his mouth to yell questioning obscenities, "There will be someone out there. You don't have any experience fighting these people. But I do. Down there, with Jimmy, all you have to do is throw the cocktail and run."

"I think you're making it sound easier than it is."

"You throw. You run. You don't look back. We'll meet you outside. Are you in?"

Church looked from Sigma to the bathroom door that Eddie had just gone through. "What happens to Eddie if... something happens?"

"No time to formulate detailed plans, but I won't leave him in a dumpster. At the very least, he'll be dropped off to an orphanage or a police station or somewhere that'll help him."

Church gritted his teeth. "Alright. Just throw and run, right?"

"Right. Don't worry too much. It might even be interesting." Sigma gestured at the picture he'd been painting. "Have you ever seen a man burn to death, Leonard? It's fascinating in a morbid way."

"Creepy."

"I didn't say it was enjoyable."

"Still creepy."

* * *

"Where's Leo going?" Eddie asked. Sigma was carrying him down the fire stairs. He was holding his paint gun in the other hand. It was a pretty cool gun. Eddie wondered if Sigma played paintball a lot. He had never played paintball. He had asked Leo once, but Leo had said that he could not afford the paint, the guns, or find any space where they could play paintball without Daddy getting really angry at them. He was always angry when he saw Eddie, though...

"He needed to pick up an item I forgot," Sigma said, shuffling down the stairs. "He'll catch up. Now, Eddie. Can you be a big boy and help me with something?"

"I'm a big boy. I'm six years old!"

"Yes, you are." Sigma slowed down as they reached the end of the stairs and lowered his voice. "There will be someone out there. Someone in black clothes and holding a gun. But it's just a paint gun."

"Like that one?" Eddie asked, pointing at Sigma's weapon.

"Yes."

"Is this a game?"

"Yes, Eddie. It's a very important game. Now." Sigma put Eddie down, faced him towards the exit, down the final flight of stairs. "You will have to lie to win. Tell him that your big brother escaped out the window, and try to lead him over. When you see me approaching, ignore me and do not tell him anything."

"Is it one of the ninjas?"

"...Yes. It's a ninja. But you're going to have to lie to the ninja. Okay?"

"Will it help Leo?"

"It'll help him very much. Now go. Don't tell him I'm here."

Eddie clambered down the stairs. This sounded like a fun game. Although this was all kind of scary. The noises before had been so loud. Eddie never thought paintball would sound like that.

He pushed open the door and came face to face with a gun barrel. A ninja was holding it. His hands were shaking a little, probably because he was very excited to play paintball.

"Hi," Eddie said cheerfully.

The ninja peered down at him, looking over his gun. "H-Hi? Uh, can you stay still? I don't want to have to shoot you."

"But isn't part of the game shooting each other?"

"Huh?"

"My brother climbed out the window."

"Your brother? Does he have brown hair?"

"He does now. He did not want the pretty rainbow hair." Eddie reached forward, tugging on the man's shirt. "Can you help me find him?"

The ninja looked at the fire exit door. He was not going to the window. Eddie widened his eyes and pouted a bit. It worked on Leo. Maybe it would work on the ninja. The ninja looked down at him, and the paint gun lowered just an inch.

"Climbed out the window, huh? Guess we better go get him."

"Let's go, let's go, let's go!" Eddie insisted, tugging more on the ninja's shirt and pulling him towards the window. He wondered how this was going to make Sigma win at paintball. "Yes. He climbed out the window. As part of the game."

"What game?"

"Paintball," Sigma said calmly, who had slipped out of the fire exit as soon as the ninja's back was turned. The ninja spun around, paint gun raised, but Sigma shot him in the face. Blue and orange paint splattered across the ninja's mask,getting into the gaps where his eyes peered out.

"Aaagh!" The ninja tried to wipe the paint out of his eyes with one hand, still clinging to the paint gun with the other. "I can't see! Where—"

"Did we win?" Eddie asked.

"Almost." Sigma raised the butt of his paintball gun and whacked the ninja over the head with it. Eddie yelped and hid behind a nearby dumpster. He heard a loud noise as he did so. When he looked again, Sigma had the other man in a headlock and was holding his gun. There was a tiny, smoking hole in the concrete nearby, only a couple of feet from Sigma. That's weird.

"Stay still," Sigma told the ninja quietly.

"Okay. Okay, just... okay," the ninja said. Sigma removed the other man's balaclava and headset and studied his face for a moment before tossing the balaclava onto the ground. He kept the headset. Eddie edged away from the dumpster to look, because he'd never seen a ninja's face before. Most of it was obscured by blue and orange paint that still coated his eyes. As such, the only thing that was distinct was a mop of blond hair.

"I'll assume you're new?" Sigma asked.

"How'd you—"

"Never mind that. There's no point in killing you. I don't need more anger from Carolina or the cops looking too closely into your murder, so you get to live this time," Sigma said. "Don't misbehave until we leave. Or you're out."

"Uhh... okay."

Eddie found it to be a very confusing game of paintball.

* * *

Church was not ready for this. The crash course on molotovs he'd received from Sigma ('Light And Throw') was not making him feel any better. He hadn't thought he'd be adding to his kills again so soon... and that was presuming he didn't accidentally kill himself at the same time.

As he edged close to Jimmy's apartment door, he heard voices.

"This would go quicker if you stopped lying to me, Jimmy. Tell me. Where. Delta. Is. Or you lose a finger."

"I don't know! I seriously don't know! Mickey was the one who did all the contacting, I just kept the records!" Jimmy yelled.

"I thought I told you not to lie. The call I got said you know. Now, you can tell me in three... two... one..."

Church heard a thunk and a loud shriek of pain from Jimmy. He covered his mouth and forced back the strong urge to throw up. He edged closer to the door, hand still clasped over his mouth to avoid issuing any sudden noises.

"Doesn't have to be this way. At least you didn't really need that finger. ...Don't throw sass at me. Just for that... the middle finger's going next. Three... tw—gotcha."

Another thunk. An even louder shriek.

"The trigger finger goes next." For a few moments, there was no noise but quick, ragged breathing. "Okay. Three... two..."

"Okay! Okay... I don't know where he lives. But I got it written down... I just don't know the place off by heart..." Jimmy said quickly, interrupted only by heavy breathing. "It's on your right, in the box of address cards on the desk. Under the name 'Derek Sterling.' Not his real name, I don't think, but..."

"Took longer than I would have hoped for, but good."

Church edged closer to the door, holding the molotov in one hand, pulling his lighter out with the other. If his and Eddie's names were on that desk, too... It had to be now.

As soon as the rag was lit, Church stepped into the doorway, pulling back his arm to throw the cocktail.

His mind took in the scene quickly. Mickey, lying dead on the floor with a bullet hole in his head. Jimmy sitting on the chair, deep red blood coating what remained of his mutilated hand. The woman in black reaching for the desk.

"No, no, no—" Jimmy started, eyes stretching wide when he saw the explosive. Church squeezed his eyes closed. That expression of pure fear was too much.

"Sorry, Jimmy." Church threw the explosive as hard as he could, before turning and running for his life.

It was a few seconds before he heard the blast, and the scream. Then... one gunshot. Church covered his mouth once again and kept running.

_Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it. Think about Eddie. Make sure he's safe._

When Church ran down the fire exit, taking the steps three at a time, he could hear Eddie's voice. It didn't sound panicked at all. When he burst through the fire exit, the first thing he saw was a man dressed identically to the woman, except that he wore no balaclava, sitting down next to the wall and looking a mixture between terrified and embarrassed while Sigma pointed a handgun at him. Eddie was sitting next to him.

"Can you teleport, Mr. Ninja? I saw ninjas teleport on the television. Can you throw those little metal star things?" Eddie asked curiously.

"Excellent. You're back," Sigma said briskly. "Into the van." He backed away from the man and opened the back of the van. Church clambered in while Eddie trotted in after him. The back was filled with several boxes of paint and one that was marked 'for private consumption.' Church decided not to question it.

"Stay here until we're gone," he heard Sigma faintly say, before Sigma ran over and climbed into the front seat. "Are we ready?"

"No, I wanted to stay around the psychotic woman chopping off fingers," Church said dryly. He glanced around at the car. "Creepy van."

"Yes. I'm creepy. I get it," Sigma grumbled. "I'll have to replace the licence plates. Perhaps abandon the vehicle. It is rather conspicuous."

Church shrugged. "Whatever. Killed two guys in two weeks, riding in a creepy van doesn't seem so bad in comparison." He tried to sound like he was full of bravado, when in reality he felt rather ill.

"Fair enough." Sigma pulled out into the street and started driving. As he turned out of sight of the apartment building, he lifted up the headset that had come from the guard at the back. He put it on his head, clicked it on and said, "Hello? ...Ah, yes. I thought it was you. Better luck next time, Carolina." Then he switched it off and put it away. Albeit with a slight smirk on his face.

* * *

Carolina had, as soon as she heard Jimmy and saw the cocktail flying towards her, rolled to the side and ducked behind the sofa. It was an ineffectual cover, but it had been enough to protect her. Jimmy had no more information now, so she stayed just long enough to shoot him in the head. The desk had quickly been consumed by fire, which meant the business cards were nothing but ashes, so instead she dived out of the window, escaping unharmed.

As she did so, she switched on her headset. "What's your status?" she asked.

A different voice replied back. "Hello?"

She knew that voice.

"Sigma?"

"Ah, yes. I thought it was you. Better luck next time, Carolina." Then it switched off.

Carolina switched off her headset, hitting the switch so angrily that it almost cracked. She doubled her sprint around to the back of the apartment complex, expecting to find a corpse. Instead, she found the rookie, sitting there and cradling his head in his hands, face coated in paint.

"What the hell, Wash?!" Carolina yelled.

"Carolina? Are—ow." Upon standing up, Wash immediately bumped right into the wall again. "They—I didn't mean—they had paintballs."

"Ugh, dammit. How could you get beaten by paintballs? Where's your actual gun?!"

"The, uh... the other guy took it."

"Fantastic. Let's get out of here. Did you get the licence plate, at least?"

"Yeah, I have that."

"Good. That's... something, at least. Let's go before the cops turn up." She started to drag him away from the apartment building, as she heard the fire alarm go off. The area would be swarming in a minute. "...Paintballs, Wash? Really?"

"Hey, I'll have you know this stuff stings like a bitch. Hardens like a rock."

"I wouldn't know. It's not bad if you don't let it hit you."

"Thanks. I'll try and remember that."

* * *

It was a couple of hours before Church even spoke again. They'd been driving quietly the entire time. Sigma hadn't said a word after he talked to 'Carolina' over the headset. He'd just kept his eyes on the road. Eddie had quickly fallen asleep, clearly worn out by the day's excitement and still tired in general from the last couple of weeks. So was Church, who was fighting not to nod off.

"Where are we going?" Church finally asked.

"We're going somewhere safe. Obviously, my apartment is no longer an option," Sigma said. "We're going to see a friend of mine."

"Could you be any more ominous?"

"If I'd wanted to harm you, I would have shot you both before fleeing. It would have been simpler. Don't worry," Sigma said, sounding the complete opposite of reassuring.

"Oh. Yay."

This was all manners of fucked up. God, had murdering his father and running from home had been the wrong choice. He was way in over his head with this stuff. Maybe Eddie would have done better if he'd been put in a home. It had to be better than running across states and getting tangled up with criminals. And after all that bullshit, he'd even lost the damn fake identification he'd gone through so much to try and get.

Fucking bullshit.

Not long after Sigma and Church traded words, Sigma pulled over in a suburban street and stopped the van.

"I have nowhere to hide this, so we're walking the last couple of blocks. Just in case," he said. "I'll return and hide the van later. Let's move."

Church clambered out of the van, carrying Eddie who was dribbling on his shoulder while he slept. Ew. It was pitch dark outside, with the exception of the street lights, and the walk was just as silent as the car ride. But, after a few minutes of walking, Sigma came to stop in front of a house. It was a normal suburban house, complete with the white picket fence and toys, including a skateboard, scattered on the porch.

"Kids?" Church muttered. "That seems inappropriate to do criminal stuff around."

"Hypocritical words, Leonard," Sigma said. He stepped over some lego blocks and puzzle pieces and rapped on the door five times. Tap tappa tap tap. After a few moments, they saw a light turn on behind the curtains and, on the other side of the door, someone knocked twice. Tap tap. Then there was the sound of several locks being undone. The door opened an inch, still locked by a couple of chains, and an eye stared out for a moment. Then it shut again, there was the sound of the chains being undone, and the door opened fully.

Sigma gestured at Church to follow him, and stepped inside. Church edged inside with some apprehension. There was nothing odd about the house, but Church felt more on edge than ever. Like behind the cute tablecloth and family photos on a nearby table would be some kind of monstrous boogeyman with a sub-machine gun.

"Who are they?" Church heard a voice say quietly. He looked around to see a red-haired boy half-hiding behind a doorway, peering out at them with wide, purple eyes. The boy looked odd, because Church was pretty sure he was at least fifteen. But he was wearing childish, purple pajamas with little baby chickens on them and something about his mannerisms... like the way he was cowering from them... that seemed very reminiscent of when Eddie would hide behind him from people he didn't trust.

"Theta, calm down. They're no threat," Sigma said.

"Who are they?" the boy repeated.

"This is Leonard and Eddie. They're friends of mine. Is there anywhere that Eddie can sleep, for the moment?"

Theta tilted his head, stepping out a little from where he was hiding. He looked at Eddie for a moment, then said, "He can stay in my room. But the, um... the... the big guy isn't allowed to stay in there."

"Big guy? ...You're like almost my height—" Church started, but Sigma shook his head and gave him a warning glance. "I mean... sure."

"It's that way," Theta said, pointing at a nearby door on the back of which was a poster of Green Lantern. Church nodded and walked over to push the door open. Things that would remind Church more of the activities of an eight-year-old boy... the superhero bedsheets and the array of stuffed animals and lego toys... contrasted with the fact that the bed was far too big for a little kid, and that there were both a high-end laptop and, here and there among the comic books, there were manuals for running various computer programs.

Church tucked Eddie into the bed before leaving the room again. Just as he was starting to feel a little more relaxed, or at least not like someone was about to jump out and shoot him, he saw Sigma and Theta conversing quietly. Theta was fiddling with his fingers nervously while Sigma looked as calm as ever. Then Theta trotted away into a different area of the house.

"What's going on?" Church asked

"Theta's just going to inform his brother of our arrival."

"Oh. ...Okay."

Church stood there awkwardly for a moment, looking around. He noticed a family photo nearby. Taking a closer look at it, he saw four people in it, two parents and two children. He recognised Theta as one of the children. The other boy was blond with green eyes.

He didn't notice Sigma sliding stealthily behind him until an arm wrapped around his neck and a cloth was pressed to his face. He tried to fight back, but Sigma chloroformed him before he could even figure out what was going on.

* * *

Being forced into unconsciousness and waking up with his hands tied was becoming far too common an occurrence. Church turned his head as much as possible, looking around the room he had come to in. It seemed to be a basement. Just a regular basement. Boxes of junk lying around, although they seemed very neatly ordered. There was a desk in the corner, with a computer sitting on top of it. But Church's attention was quickly pulled to the three people in the room with him.

Sigma was there, seated in a nearby chair and watching him. As usual, he looked pretty calm. Theta was sitting substantially further away from Church, looking spooked and still playing nervously with his fingers. There was one other person in the room that Church hadn't seen in person, but recognised as an older version of the blond boy from the picture, sitting at the computer in the corner. He looked the same age as Church, though in direct contrast to Theta there was something in his stiff posture and stoic expression that made him seem a lot older. Maybe it was the eyes, which were bright green and almost devoid of any sort of emotion.

"What the fuck is this?" Church muttered.

"Sorry for that," Sigma said. "But... well, we have reason to be suspicious."

"Reason to—what the fuck?!"

The green-eyed boy stood up, dragging his computer chair over to Church. He sat down again and stared at Church for a moment. "Leonard Church?" he enquired.

"Yeah, what's it to you?"

"Three days ago, the body of your father was discovered in the kitchen of his home by the police, who had been alerted by the neighbour because there had been no movement and no-one was bringing in the mail. Upon study of the scene, they realised that your father's body had clearly been there for over a week, and two, that the children of the household, you and one Eddie Church, were missing from the house."

"...How'd you know all that?"

"I have many contacts and, quite frankly, that news is quite well-spread around your former home. I simply had to look up your name on the internet and it came up with the results." The green-eyed boy leaned a little closer. "Currently, they are operating under the assumption that either the both of you were kidnapped, or that you kidnapped your brother. I assume the second one is closer to the truth."

Church stared right back at the green-eyed boy, but quickly got uncomfortable. Thankfully, at the same time it seemed the boy got tired of looking at him, as he got to his feet and went back to his computer desk, opening a drawer and rifling through it.

"You're... Delta, right?" Church asked.

"Affirmative."

"I thought you'd be older, at least. If you're so dangerous that someone would chop off other people's fucking fingers to find you."

"That is an observation often made in my presence, but I assure you that age does not significantly hinder my nor Theta's abilities."

"You mean that guy's a criminal as... nevermind. What have you done with Eddie?"

"Your brother is still asleep. We will not harm him. There would be no benefit in doing so." Delta returned to the seat in front of Church, holding a file in his hands. "As well as there being no benefit, I suppose I have some sympathy with orphaned siblings. Even if some of the sympathy is evaporated by it presumably being your own doing."

Delta opened the file and, removing a pen from his pocket, started to write some notes down. "We have reason to be suspicious of you, Leonard Church, because you made contact with Jimmy and Mickey and, not twenty-four hours later, they were attacked by Carolina and murdered. Are you going to tell me it was coincidence?"

"I don't even know who fucking Carolina is!"

"Then you were clearly not careful enough during your attempt to steal an important document. Did you see the man you robbed following you?"

"No!"

"The two most logical scenarios are that you either knowingly betrayed Jimmy and Mickey's involvement with me—"

"I didn't even know who you were!"

"—Or you were extremely careless and O'Malley followed you, drawing his own conclusions that I was involved and alerting people who would be interested."

"Who? The crazy guy?"

"Yes. O'Malley." Delta scribbled down another note before looking at Church again. "We have had many requests to retrieve proof of his more illicit activities, although none of the clients have been able to afford our best help. You are the only one who has managed to both retrieve evidence from his home and live. It is natural that he would follow you and find out who you were reporting to. Carolina attacked while you were inside the apartment, which indicates that she was after you as well."

"Then... why the fuck did you tie me to a chair?"

"As a precaution. Even if it was unintentional, your carelessness indirectly led to two of our workers getting killed, as well as Sigma having to abandon his base of operations."

"I did leave a lot of art behind," Sigma said, his voice tinged with regret.

"Alright. So now what?" Church tried squirming out of the ropes that bound his hands to the chair, but to no avail.

"I need some work done and am now short of workers and contacts, now that Jimmy and Mickey are out of the picture. Despite your carelessness, you did manage to complete the job. Complete some work for us, and I will let you go. I will even help your situation, if you do sufficient work."

"No way. No more criminal stuff. No fucking way," Church insisted.

"Final answer?"

"Fuck yeah, it's my final answer."

"Affirmative." Delta shrugged and turned away, nodding at Sigma. "Shoot him."

Sigma reached into the suit jacket (he was still wearing pajamas underneath) and pulled out the gun that he'd acquired earlier. He had it halfway raised and his finger on the trigger before Church yelped, "Wait, wait, wait, wait. What the fuck? No!"

"You know where we're hiding and our faces," Delta said. "If you are not working for us then you're a potential danger."

"I won't tell! I just wanna get out of this dump!"

"I am afraid I cannot trust your word on that."

"Dee..." Theta started hesitantly.

"Theta. If this is another attempt to tell me I am being overtly unpleasant then please save your concerns for a later timeframe," Delta interrupted. Theta frowned a little and looked at the floor, fiddling with the sleeves of his pajamas. "Will you stop wearing a negative expression if I give him one more chance to change his mind?" Theta nodded. "Affirmative." Delta focused on Church again. "You have thirty seconds to reconsider."

Maybe this was the reason why Jimmy couldn't just get out of the business. Jesus, had Jimmy been threatened into the business, too? And Church had gotten him killed... Church stared down the gun barrel Sigma was pointing at him before for what felt like an eternity, though it was really five seconds.

"Twenty-five seconds," Delta said.

"Right, right. Say I agree. What happens to me? And what happens to Eddie?" Church asked.

"You may live here for the present. We have enough room, this residence is only occupied by me and Theta and is made to fit six people at maximum. We would prefer to keep you and your sibling close by, in case you change your mind about working with us, but this would simply be a precaution. Unless you are disobedient, we have no intention of harming him."

"Then... theoretically... what happens to him if I disagree?"

"If you refuse to cooperate right now, we will simply place him in a home. If you attempt to betray us later, however, the consequences will likely be unpleasant for the both of you."

Church scowled at the gun barrel. "You guys are douchebags. You know that, right?"

"I fail to understand how I am a bag of... oh. That was an insult."

"No shit. ...Alright. I don't have a choice, do I?"

"You did have a choice, but logic dictated you would not choose death."

* * *

Three years had passed since Grif moved in. Despite his promise to find another place as soon as possible, he had yet to do so. There had been excuses from Grif and nagging from Simmons. It had gone for a while, although it had just become habit after the first couple of months. Then Grif had stopped making excuses and Simmons had stopped nagging. By now, no-one really cared.

And it'd been fun. Although there was arguing almost every day, it was rarely malicious. The worst the arguments got was when Grif did something like drinking milk out of the carton or forgetting to put some pants on. There were arguments with Sister, as well. Mostly concerning her overuse of pot. Although she had cut back on the more dangerous drugs, she still smoked a whole lot of pot.

At the moment, Simmons could smell the marijuana smoke, even from his room. It was making him feel rather fuzzy in the head, and he didn't want that while working on his coding. Grif was at work, so he couldn't rely on Grif to shout about the smoke. Grumbling, he switched off the computer screen and stormed into the kitchen.

"Can't you smoke that somewhere else?" he snapped. "I can't concentrate. ...Are you drinking? It's two in the afternoon."

"Yeah, but I was up all night. So that means it's fine," Sister insisted. "Besides, it's just Malibu. Girly drinks. Girly drinks have different rules." She stuck the weed in an ashtray (there had been no ashtrays in the apartment until Grif and Sister arrived, now there was one in every room) and raised the pink bottle. "You want some? Come on, you were up all night, too."

That was true, although Simmons had been working. He had to finish some work in the next two days and he didn't want to risk falling behind. Although, he had made a lot of headway last night, and he could probably finish it in time if he got less sleep that night.

"I don't know..."

Sister was watching him pretty intensely. That made Simmons uncomfortable. He hated it when girls paid attention to him, it was always so awkward. Even if Sister had been a roommate for three years, didn't mean he was entirely comfortable around her. Not when she was smoking and buzzed and focused on him.

"Come on, Simmons. Just a few drinks. Drinking by myself isn't nearly as fun. We can drink, put on some music. Have a party! Woohoo!"

Definitely high and buzzed. Although... it was hard to tell with Sister.

"Yeah, okay. One drink."

Maybe the second-hand pot smoke was getting to him, too. He really should have known better than to accept the offer of girly alcohol.

One drink became so many more. Combined with the marijuana smoke, they both started chatting about stuff that would have seemed inane normally, like about how great it would be if they could rule over all cockroaches and control them with their minds.

Eventually, the conversation got into extremely awkward territory, which would have made Simmons go bright red and hide back in his room if he hadn't been completely wasted.

"—and that's how I realised that guys sometimes have some real rocking butts," Simmons finished explaining, wobbling precariously from his seat on top of the kitchen table. "Not Grif, though. His is... like..." Simmons made some vague hand gesture that was meant to illustrate his point, a point that he no longer remembered. "It's like that, you know?"

"I totally know," Sister said seriously. "Grif has the gross family butt. Like what Mum had. I escaped the curse, though. See? My butt is, like... awesome. Anyways... Cinnamon. I mean, Simmons. I like Cinnamon better, actually. Cinnamon?"

"Yeah?"

"So, you like guys?"

"Did I say that?"

"You said they have rocking butts."

"Oh. Yeah, I remember that. Kinda. Sorry. I got distracted."

"Do you like girls, as well?"

"Uh... I... I don't remember. Give me some time." Simmons took a swig of the coconut-flavoured alcohol. "I don't know. Girls said I was a nerd. Buuuut they had nice butts, too."

"Ass man?"

"Sure, why the fuck not." The sober Simmons would have been horribly embarrassed at admitting that. But drunk Simmons had no shame. Not to mention he was currently distracted by Sister's ass, now that she had brought it up in conversation.

"Cinnamoooon?"

"Yeah?"

"We should totally make out," Sister declared cheerfully. Perhaps the most unsubtle come-on that Simmons had ever heard. Not that he had heard many.

Normally, Simmons would have the sense to say no. Normally, he wasn't both drunk and high off second-hand smoke.

"Huh. ...Okay."

Later on, Simmons looked back on that moment and wanted to punch himself for it. But it had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Sister's skin had been soft and she'd been all warm and jiggly... and there was this awkward moment in the middle of it, when Simmons had his eyes half-closed and in that squinty state Sister actually resembled Grif a little. Simmons had a nagging feeling that it should have disturbed him, but it didn't... Not really...

"Come on, Cinnamon. I... I wanna show you something. It's a bit like that kung fu trick that girl did in that movie that was on TV the other day... except this will be fun instead of death-causing. Hang on, just need to remove my shorts. Oh my god, I should totally show you my ping-pong ball trick while we're at it."

Yes, it had seemed like a brilliant idea. The exact moment it had started to sound like a bad idea was when, in the middle of Sister showing off her ping-pong ball trick (the muscles there should not have been so powerful, damn) Grif strolled in, humming absentmindedly to himself. His good mood evaporated in a nanosecond, replaced by a lot of screaming.

"SIMMONS, YOU SISTERFUCKING BASTARD!"

* * *

Honestly, Simmons was quite stunned that he'd managed to climb a tree in his more-than-tipsy state. But now that he was up that tree... he couldn't get down again. Even if he could, there was a furious Grif waiting at the bottom, holding a baseball bat and wearing the most pissed off, 'I-am-going-to-stab-you-in-the-manberries' expression that Simmons had ever seen on his face. Even worse than when Simmons had accidentally thrown out his favourite orange t-shirt.

Simmons sighed, the side of his face pressed to the bark. He was clinging tightly to the branch and was terrified of moving. Anytime he shifted even an inch he got extremely dizzy. Although the fear was causing him to sober up considerably.

"I am going to kill you once you get back down here. Then I'm gonna drag you back from Hell and kill you again!" Grif roared, hitting the base of the tree with his bat. Each whack caused the tree to shake just a little. Simmons clung tighter. "You jerk! How could you do that?! I told you to never lay a hand on her!"

"I didn't lay my hands on her!" Simmons shouted back. It was technically true. His hands hadn't been touching Sister, at least not when Grif walked in.

"You fucking bastard! I am so gonna get you. You ain't gonna be able to fuck anyone once I'm done with you, least of all Sister!"

"Grif! Why you gotta be such a hardass?" Sister whined from the apartment window. "You're such a killjoy! Killjoy!"

"You shut up and get back inside!"

_God, I'm gonna die. This was not how I thought I'd go. I didn't think I'd be stuck up a tree, at least._

Simmons shut his eyes. The height he was at was really scaring him. A fall from this height would hurt a lot, if it didn't outright kill him. He heard Grif screaming insults and threats at him for a lot longer. Then it got quiet. He could still hear Grif moving around at the bottom of the tree. But no insults. And then there was a rustling noise.

Simmons opened one eye and yelped.

Grif was climbing the tree. He was climbing slowly and he had to stop to catch his breath every couple of branches. But the fact that Grif, possibly the laziest person on earth, was climbing a tree to get at him... that was really a testament to how mad he was.

"Whoa. There's no need for that!" Simmons tried to shift into a sitting position, as Grif climbed higher.

"What, you thought I would just sit down there until I got bored? And then you'd just slink back in and pretend it didn't happen? Not gonna fucking happen!" Grif looked down briefly, and paled. "Whoa, this is high. But still!"

_I don't want to die! I have so much left to give! _Simmons paused for a moment, then became very depressed when he realised he couldn't actually think of those things. But then it was back to fear, as Grif reached his branch.

"End of the line, you sisterfucking douche." Grif attempted to climb onto the branch itself, but wobbled and instead clung to the trunk. "Whoa, shit! How'd you climb up this far?!"

"Grif, you moron! Now you're stuck up here, too!"

"Shut up!" Grif tried climbing onto the branch again, but once more ended up back to hugging the trunk. "Aw, shit. Sister!"

"What?!"

"Can you see if anyone around the neighbourhood has a ladder? If they don't... then just call someone who can get me out of the tree."

The minutes went by. Grif seemed to have run out of threats and insults. At least, that's what Simmons thought. Until Grif said, "When we're back down there, I'm gonna kill you."

"Look! I'm sorry, alright?" Simmons shifted, trying to find a more stable place to sit on the branch. "Nothing happened except for a little bit of groping." _I was so not at third base. _"I'm sorry. Really. I don't think when I'm drunk. Not about that kind of stuff, anyway. It always seems like a good idea."

"You know what really pisses me off?" Grif growled. Simmons shook his head. "What really pisses me off... is that I trusted you. I thought you were okay." Grif shook his head. "But in the end, you're just another one of those fucking assholes trying to get into Sister's pants."

"I... I wasn't..."

"Don't even bother trying to fucking explain. I don't know why I expected any different."

* * *

By the time they were rescued from the tree (it had taken a long time for Sister to find a neighbour with a ladder anywhere close to long enough) Grif was still fuming. He had stormed into the apartment building as Simmons was still climbing down the ladder. When Simmons finally got back inside, he was greeted with a punch in the face.

Simmons touched his fingers to his split lip. "Okay. I deserved that."

"Fuck yeah you did." Grif returned to gathering whatever bits of clothing and comics and whatever that he'd left lying around the apartment.

"What are you doing?"

"We're leaving."

"You're... what?"

"I warned you right from the get-go, asshole." Grif pointed at him. "I told you. My only rule was 'don't fuck my sister.' And you literally fucked up."

"It never went that far! There wasn't any penetration!"

"Oh yeah? What would have happened if I hadn't walked in, huh?"

"I don't know! I was fucking drunk!"

"Exactly. Who's to say it won't happen again, huh?" Grif shoved Simmons out of his way as he stormed back towards his and Sister's room. "I'm not risking it happening again. Now stay the fuck out of my way. I don't want to see your goddamn face. Not now, not ever."

* * *

Simmons had tried to reason with Grif. But anytime he went near him, Grif had verbally abused him and thrown a few more punches his way. In the end, Simmons had given up. He'd watched Grif storm out, dragging Sister along with him. Sister hadn't been able to offer Simmons anything except an apologetic look. If she had so much as directed a word at Simmons, Grif would have started screaming again.

Simmons had gone right back to working on his computer once Grif had gone. He just hadn't been able to think of anything else to do. And that had gone on for three days. He'd gone with his usual routine. Working, mostly. But it had somehow ceased to matter to him. Getting the work in on time was just something he did out of habit, not because he particularly cared, and the evenings seemed so empty without the usual arguments about which superhero would win in a fight.

Simmons had often complained that it was too small an apartment for three people. Now it seemed far too big. And whenever he sat on the couch, he smelt Oreos. Something he had bitched about before, but which he found oddly comforting now.

Part of his brain reminded him that Grif was only supposed to be a temporary roommate anyway. Another part of his brain said that Grif was a douchebag who drank milk out of the carton and that it was a blessing to be rid of him.

But the louder part of his brain was screaming that the silence and emptiness was unbearable. He missed Grif. He missed Sister, too, but Grif was the best friend he had, even if he'd somehow been the most irritating at the same time. One didn't make many friends when they were a shy nerd who spent the majority of their time shut up inside their apartment hacking computers.

It was just too empty in the apartment without Grif lying on the couch and snoring like an elephant, or Sister going through the medicine cupboard looking for aspirin to get rid of a headache caused by partying the night before. Simmons knew that simply finding new roommates would not fill that gap. Even after only three days, it was enough to make him go mental.

So, sitting on that Oreo-scented couch, Simmons made a decision. He knew that Grif and Sister wouldn't be able to find an apartment so soon. They'd be sleeping in Grif's beat up car.

It was going to take a while to search the city for that car. But Simmons would do it. He couldn't just let them go, because if he did he would always regret it. Even if Grif just punched him in the face again, at least he would have tried.

* * *

Eight years after that con which mentally scarred Tucker for life, he'd definitely moved on from his 'uninterested-in-girls-and-still-a-complete-virgin' stage. Oh, how he'd moved on. Sure, pulling girls had been tough at first. Especially when he still looked like he was a twelve-year-old kid. And the first few experiences with girls had been... awkward at the least. The first time, Tucker may have freaked a little when it came to taking his pants off and jumped out the window.

But after a lot of coaching from Jones/Joannes/the-one-who-wasn't-British (Tucker could never remember which was which) and once he'd gotten to the stage where he could go through with it minus the freaking out and jumping out of windows, he found that it was a lot more fun than giving a handjob to a middle-aged businessman.

By this point, Tucker was goddamn awesome at it. He could talk a lot of girls into a one-nighter, and he was very proud of it. Even if he still had to rely on alcohol and terrible judgment on occasion. And to think, if someone had told him that he'd be such a womanizing whorebag eight years ago, Tucker would have just shook his head and said that he wasn't like his mother.

He still maintained that he wasn't like her. That would imply that Tucker did it for the money. Which he didn't. Not much. Only if it was part of a con. This time, it wasn't.

Usually Tucker stuck to the city when he went cruising for girls. Occasionally, however, he would go to one of the smaller towns just a bit outside the city. The girls there had a different flavour than the ones in the city. Even if some of the families in that area were a bunch of hicks, the girls were more impressed with 'sophisticated city men.' Which Tucker used for all it was worth.

Last night, it had been a plain-looking girl, but she'd had stunning blue eyes, which had caused Tucker to pick her out over the other girls at the bar. Well, after the one with the rocking booty slapped him in the face for his smooth pick-up lines. He's suspected for a moment that he'd picked Blue Eyes up before, because the eyes had looked familiar, but she hadn't seemed to recognise him (given that she hadn't opened their conversation with 'you don't remember my name, do you?') so what the hell.

Now, he was engaged in the morning activity that always followed these nights. Getting the hell out of the house before the girl woke up and got clingy.

Tucker climbed out of the bed, trying to move the sheets as little as possible, and tried to locate his underwear. He hadn't taken a good look at the room when he'd arrived, as it'd been dark and also he'd been more concerned with... well, boobs. But there were three other beds in here, though they were all empty, and from this room he could hear a lot of noise throughout the house. Lots of children and cats, with an older-sounding voice yelling above the noise on occasion.

_Oh god. I didn't go home with jailbait, did I? All the more reason to scoot._

Tucker located his underwear and shirt, but he was still lacking in pants. As he looked around for his jeans, he heard a quiet creaking noise and quickly turned around. The door had been pushed open by a ginger cat, who trotted in and jumped onto the bed, plopping its ass down and staring at him.

"Don't judge me," Tucker grumbled at it. "You're probably banging random cats. Do you call them back?"

The cat gave him a look which communicated a very clear 'I'm a goddamn cat' message. Tucker finally spotted his pants draped on a cabinet on the other side of the room (how the hell had they ended up there?) but before he could do anything about it, he heard a voice.

"Apples? Apples, Apples, Apples, where are you?" the voice cooed. The door got pushed open wider. "There you are, who's a good kitty? Yes, you—what."

Tucker backed away from the teenaged boy who was now staring at him. Same eyes. God, male relatives... anything but male relatives... This guy rang a familiar bell, as well. Not just the eyes. There was just a general feeling of deja vu.

"I know you. Aren't you... weren't you were doing slutty things with Lynn? It was gross."

Tucker made it a point to remember a girl's name until at least the next morning (he came off as smoother when he did) and he was pretty damn sure his one-night-stand's name wasn't Lynn.

"...Nooo?" Tucker said, stepping back a little.

"Yeah, no, I remember it. Because I needed my shoes and I walked in and you were doing this thing my dad calls the wheelbarrow position and it was really icky and—that is not Lynn." The boy looked at the girl in the bed before he started glaring. "Did you... make icky... with two of my sisters?"

"Make icky?" Tucker mumbled skeptically. "Are you five?"

"Did you?!"

Tucker scratched the back of his head before deciding that, fuck it, the other boy was just a random kid that was fifteen at the most. It wasn't like he could actually do anything to him, because Tucker was a fucking awesome twenty-four-year-old.

"Fine, I did. I guess. Can I put some pants on now—"

The boy punched him in the face.

"Ow, dude!" Tucker yelped, holding his eye. "Dude, I can't fight you, you're like a little kid."

"You are not allowed to do things to more than one sister! That is mean and icky and YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE THEM ALL ITCHY!" the boy yelled at him, grabbing his collar and dragging him out of the room. "Swirlie time. That'll teach you."

"Aw, man, not swirlies! Come on!" Tucker yelled back, trying to stop the boy from dragging him along. He'd been dunked a couple of times during his school years, primarily due to his smart mouth, and was not eager to experience it again. But his struggling was ineffectual, until a woman's voice called out this time from elsewhere in the house.

"Mikey, what on earth is all that racket?"

"There's a man with poofy hair who did bad things with Lynn and Bailey!" the boy yelled back.

"Then just throw him out of the house! I don't want toilet water on your new shoes, and school starts in half an hour!"

"But, Mamaaaa..."

"Now, Michael!"

"Fineeee." Mikey changed direction, still dragging Tucker along with him, until they arrived at the front door. Michael opened it and shoved Tucker through it unceremoniously, before pointing at him. "If you come back to make another sister itchy, I will borrow Papa's shotgun." Then he slammed the door in Tucker's face.

"Can I have my pants back?" Tucker called out.

The door opened again.

"No."

It slammed once more.

"..Well, shit."

Tucker wandered off down the street, pantsless and absently wondering how the girl had managed to sleep through all of that.

Of course, a black eye from a teenager was bad. Losing a pair of jeans that made his ass look awesome was worse. But the fact that his wallet, along with that month's rent in it, had been in the pocket of his jeans? That was a major issue.

Well, that was just irritating. Now Tucker needed money to get back to the city and money to pay the month's rent. After he'd spent so much of the last week conning money out of people during his stay in the town. All that effort down the toilet.

The only good part about the situation was that the local chicks could admire Tucker's general pantslessness as he strolled around, which was definitely a gift to womankind. As he strolled down a small street of shops, he tried to look his most confident, so he could pretend that it was a totally intentional look.

Eventually, he reached a phone booth. He slipped into the booth and dialed C.T's number, hoping that C.T wouldn't ignore him because it was early in the morning and he was reversing the charges.

The phone rang a few times. The voice that answered was a girl's voice.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, I'm looking for C.T. Why you got his phone?"

"What? ...Oh! Uh, yeah, he's just sleeping. I'll wake him up." There was some rustling noises, and after a few minutes he heard CT's voice.

"Tucker, what the hell? It's eight-thirty. I told you not to call me this early on Saturdays."

"I know, but I'm in a jam."

"Ohhh, Tucker. Did you bang a married woman again?"

"No, no. Turned out I slept with two sisters, and the little brother got mad at me and now I have a black eye and no money or pants, and I need rent money and a way to get back to the city."

"This wouldn't happen if you weren't such a skank," C.T told him.

"Shut up. Don't judge me, you got a girl in your bedroom."

"Sure, whatever. Listen. I got a way you can make some money quick. It's not a con. Just something that Smith mentioned to me."

"I'm listening," Tucker said, as he adjusted a little and tried winking at a girl passing his phone booth, having learnt nothing from recent events.

"Well, he's got a friend who works at this little independent lab. Anyway, this friend has been doing some little experiments. They need samples of human matter for it. Blood and semen, mostly. Don't know what it's for, but he's paying quite a bit for it. He didn't want to advertise on the street, so he's been asking Smith to find some people. Hand over, say, twenty-five percent of what he pays you to Smith, and he'll take you right there."

"What kind of shit is it for?" Tucker asked.

"I just said I don't know. I said that about five seconds ago."

"Sorry. I'm kinda distracted by a girl—I mean, uh. Distracted by something serious. There was a... tornado."

"Next to your phone booth," C.T said in a deadpan tone.

"Yep. But not important. I need the money. I'll do it."

"Tell me where you are, and I'll send Smith right over."

"Okay, but tell him to bring a pair of pants. ...Nice ones."

"Don't be fussy."

"Hey, I gotta look good."

* * *

"Blarg blarg."

"Yeah. Uh, hi to you to."

"Blarg, blarg blarg honk," Smith said to the other man. Tucker was unable to catch his name, due to the fact that they were speaking in the blargs and honks that most of C.T's friends spoke in. The man had the similar tinted hair and odd, yellowish eyes, as well. His teeth looked pointy and sharp. He was honestly making Tucker a little nervous. Those teeth just looked like they could bite through a lot. And scientists were creepy enough on their own.

The sharp-toothed man (who Tucker was referring to as 'Crunchbite' within his own mind) peered over the desk at Tucker. Then he nodded.

"Blarg blarg. Blarg," he said approvingly, before passing Tucker a contract of sorts. Tucker read it. It consisted mostly of blargs and honks, just like their regular speech. Except for a couple of mentions of the word 'shisno.' Whatever that meant.

"Is this one of those contracts that says I might die and that no-one can sue you if I do?" Tucker asked suspiciously. Crunchbite shook his head. "What's it say, then?"

"Blarg blarg blarg!"

Tucker looked at him, then looked sideways at Smith. "Is there anything in there about him stealing my organs?"

There was a pause, and then Smith said, "Honk." Tucker sighed.

"Brilliant. Look, I'll sign the damn thing if you pay me up front. If this is one of those things where you're really going to steal my kidney, then I at least want the cash first."

"Blarg blarg honk. Honk honk," Crunchbite said, nodding.

"Cool, whatever. Now lemme sign the damn thing already."

* * *

"Today was shit," Tucker grumbled, staring into his shot of whiskey. C.T's bar was mostly empty that evening. It was generally less crowded than it had been eight years ago. The British Jones/Joannes had been caught and arrested for some of his cons and Gary had vanished a few years back. Combined with the fact that many cons moved on once they had too high a profile in the city, there weren't that many of the old cons left.

C.T shrugged. "Always some bad days in this profession. You should know that by now."

"Yeah, I do. Doesn't mean I can't bitch about it." Tucker knocked back another cup of whiskey. "Could have been worse. I mean, Crunchbite was mad creepy..."

"Who?"

"Smith's friend."

"Oh."

"Anyway, mad creepy. And having to jack off into a cup for some scientist with really sharp teeth is just awkward. But at least he didn't steal my kidney or nothing."

"The only guy I can recall who regularly stole people's kidneys quit doing that years ago. Don't worry about it. Last person who had a kidney taken was Jones."

"I'm Joannes," Joannes complained from the other end of the bar. "How are you still confusing us? Jones isn't even around nowadays."

"Quit whining."

"Come on, there's gotta be some proper cons you can throw my way, CT. Anything. I got nothing interesting going on."

"I got nothing. I'm waiting on some, but there's nothing huge at the moment. If you're that desperate for something, just do some door-to-door scams in one of the smaller towns."

"Nah. Last time I did that, someone figured out it was a scam and I got chased out," Tucker said gloomily. "Man. Being a con sucks, sometimes."

"If it's that bad, just quit."

"I said it sucks sometimes. I didn't say I wanted to quit."

* * *

Tucker completely forgot about his visit to Crunchbite's lab. It wasn't something he could be bothered to think about. Not when he could be pondering other ways to con people out of their hard-earned cash. Or pondering ways to charm the ladies and avoid any male relatives that ended up chasing him.

He forgot for many months. But just under a year after that incident occurred, there was a knock at his door. Tucker had been going through the fridge, looking for a beer and something decent to eat, when the knocking happened. He sighed, hoping it wasn't that girl two floors down that he had banged a few weeks ago. She had seemed a bit like the clingy type.

"Yeah, just a minute..."

Tucker stopped to open his beer before heading for the front door. When he opened it, Crunchbite was there. He was holding something wrapped in a bundle.

"Hey, Crunchbite. What's up? I'm not donating stuff again. If you're here for more blood and semen, gonna have to say no. I know I'm probably a fucking awesome subject, but that was a one-time thing. If you're out, just go pull some random hobo off the street. He'd probably go for it if you paid him in food."

Crunchbite lifted the bundle slightly. Tucker looked down at it. There was a kid inside. Couldn't be more than a couple of weeks old.

"Nice kid. He yours?"

"Honk honk." Crunchbite pointed at the kid, and then pointed at Tucker.

"I don't get it."

"Honk honk."

Tucker studied the kid carefully. The kid had sharp teeth, too. And his hair had that weird tint of blue. It had to be Crunchbite's kid... And yet... The kid stared up at him with wide eyes. Wide, brown eyes that were identical to Tucker's.

It clicked. It took a while, but it clicked.

"Oh shit."

"No, come on! You can deal with one extra roommate! We'll barely take up any space!" Grif pleaded. But to no avail. The door slammed shut behind him and Sister. "Fuck."

"I didn't like that place, anyway. He had books on how to maintain your health. He wouldn't have let us smoke," Sister said, following Grif back down the stairs.

"Hmph."

They left the apartment building, returning to where they had parked their car/temporary home. The trunk was filled with their belongings and the backseat was padded with blankets and a pillow. That was where Sister slept. Grif had been insistent on it. He'd taken the remaining pillow and used the front seat as his temporary bed.

"Guess that place is out. Let's find somewhere to park for the night, then I'll grab us some food."

"Okay."

The drive was done in silence. Grif scowled over the wheel. Sister sat quietly in the back. As Grif pulled up in a parking lot, one that wasn't too far from a group of fast food restaurants, Sister spoke up.

"Dex?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Couldn't we just go back?" Sister had pulled her knees up to her chin, curled up in the back seat. "Couldn't we just go back to the apartment?"

"No."

"But... But I liked it there. And you liked it there."

"Yeah, until Simmons fucking... I don't want to talk about it!"

Grif would admit, if only in his own head, that he had liked living with Simmons. That he'd actually considered Simmons tolerable, despite his neurotic habits. But with what had happened, it was as bad as if Simmons had literally stabbed him in the back and left him for dead in an alleyway. If it'd been anyone else, Grif could actually deal with that. He expected random guys he didn't know to make passes at Sister. But Simmons?

"I didn't think you'd get so upset about the whole 'trying-to-bang-Simmons' thing. I know you get pissy about that kind of stuff, but I thought you wouldn't mind if it was Simmons as much. I mean, you actually like him. Not like the other guys."

"That makes it worse, you fucking dipshit!" Grif snapped. Sister edged away from him, looking frightened. Grif sighed. "Sorry. I... Look. I just don't want to talk about it. I'm going to get us some dinner. What do you want?"

"Um... Can we have chicken?"

"Sure. I'll be back in twenty."

* * *

Grif never thought he'd say it, but a week of eating nothing but fast food was really starting to annoy him. Then again, everything was annoying him. The fact that he was doing nothing but working and looking for apartments. The fact that he was stuck living in a car again. The fact that Sister was also living in a car again. The fact that he had no access to television or a microwave or even a proper toilet. He hated public bathrooms. Can't relax while taking a dump there.

Even with all that, the fact that Simmons kept strolling through his head was annoying him most of all.

That fucking dumbass.

Even when he was trying to fucking sleep, Simmons would just wander in and out of his dreams, the fucking douche. Despite the stress relief of some of these dreams, mostly the ones when he was hitting Simmons with his baseball bat, it wasn't helping Grif's overall mood.

This one didn't even involve hitting Simmons with a bat. They were just watching television and arguing. It felt real. Like the incident hadn't even happened, and everything was fine.

"Grif. Grif."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Simmons, get the door."

Tap. Tap.

"Grif!"

"Come on, you..."

A particularly loud tap woke Grif up. Sister was already sitting up, peering out the window. Grif stared out through his window as well, with slightly bleary vision.

Simmons was actually standing out there, tapping insistently on the top of the car.

"Jesus, you must move the car a lot. I've been looking for you for ages. Can we just talk? Please?" he asked through the window. Grif looked away from him, feeling for the car keys. No way was he going to listen to anything that dumbass had to say.

The keys were gone. Or more accurately, they had been taken by Sister, who was holding them.

"Pleeeeease, can you just talk things out? I hate living in the car. You drive like a maniac and I haven't had a shower in a week." Sister held the keys out of Grif's reach, and when Grif tried to grab them off her she quickly dropped them down her shirt. No way was Grif reaching down there. Ew. "Make up, and I'll give them back," she said sternly.

"Fucking bullshit!" Grif snapped, crossing his arms and staring straight ahead. "You traitor! Traitor! You're both traitors and jerks." Sister reached over and unlocked the passenger's door before climbing out of the car.

"I don't want to get in the middle of things, and this conversation will probably be... you know, angry and with a lot of shouting and all that crappy stuff. I'll just go wait on that bench." She wandered off towards the bench, and Simmons climbed into the passenger's seat. He was leaning slightly away, probably in case Grif lashed out at him again. Which Grif was definitely considering.

"Uh. Hi. Uh, so. Where to begin..." Simmons mumbled.

"How about you begin by getting the fuck out? You know what? We could end with that, too. It'd be a timesaver."

"Okay, first off... I know I've already said this, but I'm really sorry. I'm really, really fucking sorry. If I could turn back time, I would, but that's not possible outside of my science fiction novels."

Grif shifted, trying to shun Simmons as well as he could while sitting next to him. He didn't have much room, since the pillow kept getting in the way and there was a bunch of fast food wrappers lying under his feet. Simmons looked down.

"Have you been eating anything that's actually healthy?"

"None of your fucking business."

"Will you stop snapping at me for the next few minutes? It was just a question. Anyway. You... You don't have to stay away from the apartment, you know. You and Sister can still stay. I mean, you guys are... well, kinda annoying most of the time. But not in a bad way?"

"It's not happening. Can you get out of my fucking car, already?"

"Look, if you're worried about me hitting on Sister, don't worry. I won't. If it makes you feel better, I won't even drink while we're living under the same roof. I'm not big on alcohol anyway. And there's no way I would... you know, try to go any further with her... if I was sober anyway. I'm too shy. I wear underwear in the shower, even."

Grif snorted, but otherwise kept ignoring him.

"Trust me, it won't happen again. Girls make me kind of uncomfortable, anyway."

Grif looked sideways at Simmons. He looked really tired, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"You look like shit," Grif said finally.

"I've been looking for you and Sister for the last four days. And I figured it'd be easier to find you at night, and since I still have to work... Well. Not much time for sleeping. But that's beside the point."

"If you're not planning on doing anything with Sister," Grif started, "Then why are you so desperate to get us to move back that you're skipping sleep to do so?"

"You guys are my only friends, why wouldn't I?" Simmons sounded genuinely confused at the question.

Grif's hands clung tighter to the steering wheel. "Didn't stop you from fucking shit up."

"Seriously, Grif. What part of 'drunk off my ass' don't you get? I'm a handsy drunk. If it had been Sister at work and you at home, I would have shoved my hands down your pants." There was a pause, and then Simmons said, "Shit, that came out wrong."

"How was that supposed to come out right?" Grif muttered.

"My point is, it was the alcohol. Seriously. I have better self-control than that. Dammit, I'm just trying to say I miss you guys."

"Miss us? It's only been one fucking week, you girl. What, were you hoping that we could then go prancing and press wildflowers?" Grif said harshly.

"Yeah, I was. Because missing someone makes me a 19th century dandy," Simmons said sarcastically. "Okay, this is clearly not getting anywhere new. Just... Just give me another chance. I won't fuck up again."

Grif drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Most of him was still burning with rage. Out of the little portions of his brain that weren't, one of them couldn't get the image of Simmons prancing through fields of flowers out of his head. Goddammit.

The more rational, undistracted part of his mind pointed out that the alternative was living in a car. And that if they found another roommate, he might be even worse than Simmons.

There was also the fact that, as much as he ribbed on Simmons for it... Grif kinda missed him, too. Even though he still wanted to punch his face in.

In any case, Sister still had the car keys.

"You're buying the food for the next couple of weeks," Grif grumbled.

"So... You're coming back? We're cool?"

"I never said that. I'll give you another chance. But I'm warning you. You so much as look at Sister in a funny way, and I will chop your intestines out and feed them to pigs." Grif sat back on the seat, meeting Simmons' eyes for the first time since he'd gotten in the car. "I'm not exaggerating."

Simmons did pale noticeably. "Eh heh. Fair enough."

"Great." Grif wound down the window. "Sis! We're leaving, get in the car!"

"Woohoo!" Sister skipped back over, dropped into the back seat.

"Gimme the keys."

"Oh, right. Just a second."

Simmons, at least, did keep his eyes to the ceiling while Sister fidgeted around, trying to locate the keys. After a few moments, she fished out the car keys. Grif grabbed them once he had found a napkin to hold them with.

"I guess it's too much to ask that you keep all four wheels on the ground, isn't it?" Simmons sighed.

"Protest and I'll shove you out of the car. Without slowing down."

"Alright, alright."

* * *

"I am scared," Caboose said. He had the blankets tugged over his head again. It had become a common habit since he had seen his own reflection. Sheila assumed he was scared or ashamed of his appearance. Or perhaps he still thought there was a ghost looming in all the reflective surfaces. In any case, it was difficult to get him out of the blankets.

"There is no need to be scared, Mr. Caboose." Sheila still spoke with her hands as well. Although Caboose was managing coherent sentences some of the time, he still couldn't understand other people very well. "Aren't you sick of the hospital by now?"

"But... It is scary," Caboose whined, pointing at the window. "And I... not... sisters see." He pointed at his head, where the scars were still fresh. "Cannot talk good. Cannot under...thing. Not strong anymore. ...It is..." Caboose frowned. "It is..."

"If you can't remember the word, that's okay. I understand. You'll get better with time and with therapy. And I'm sure your sisters will get over the scarring." Caboose didn't reply, he just scrunched his face up in thought, trying to remember the word he'd been looking for. "I have to see your mother about something, I'll be back with her in a few minutes. Okay?"

Caboose nodded. Sheila stepped outside the room where his mother was waiting.

"He's not taking the idea of leaving too well."

"Why wouldn't he want to leave? He needs to be at home with his family..." Margretta sighed. "Although... Most of the younger kids think he's on a camping trip. I wasn't sure how to tell them, especially... earlier..." She wiped at her eyes. "I still don't know how. My poor baby can't understand me. He can't understand anyone, how am I going to tell them? And he looks so... different."

"Don't remind him of that. He's too aware of it already. I'll be honest... Often, these sorts of injuries do put a lot of stress on families." Sheila handed the mother a sheet of paper. "Here is a list of speech and language therapists, of people who can assist with physiotherapy and various psychologists and psychiatrists that can assist in the case of any neuropsychiatric symptoms. And there's a therapist listed who can help if family difficulties do come up. As a side precaution, you shouldn't let him handle anything delicate, not until he's progressed with his physical therapy."

"Um... Okay. That's not a problem. Most of the stuff in the house isn't very delicate... The kids always end up breaking anything like that..." Margretta managed a weak smile. "I think we'll manage. A loving family can fix anything, right?"

"I hope so."

When they re-entered Caboose's room, he was still trying to think.

"It is... It is..." he muttered under his breath.

"Mr. Caboose, it's time to lea—"

Caboose's face brightened. "Bullshit!" he said proudly.

"Mikey! Watch your language!" Margretta scolded. Caboose yelped and tugged the blanket further over his head. "No, no, I didn't mean to scare you, dear... But that's not very nice language to use in front of Dr. Filss."

"It's okay, he was just trying to find a word to describe something. Any word is an improvement."

"It's still unpleasant language. We say bullstupid, Mikey. Bullstupid," Margretta said slowly. Caboose peered out of his blanket, looking confused and a little bit scared.

"He doesn't understand what you're angry about." Sheila sighed, before saying, "She doesn't like you saying that word." She made hand gestures to accompany the sentence.

"Ohhh."

Wheelchairs were still fun. Although Caboose didn't see why Sheila had to wheel him out of the hospital. He could walk. Sort of. He lost balance easily and his legs always felt kind of weak, but he could walk. Still, it was fun. And Caboose would not be wheeled around by Sheila for much longer. He was leaving the hospital today. Which was scary, but also kind of exciting, because he really missed home.

The sun was really bright, when they stepped outside. It was the first time Caboose had been outside in a very long time, since the crash. Caboose didn't know how long it had been, but it felt like years. It probably wasn't years. He had not seen any fireworks.

Sheila stopped the wheelchair, walked around to help him out of it. It was just them, since Mama had left for... some reason. Sheila was a nice lady and Caboose was going to miss her. He was scared that the other doctors would not be so nice. No-one could be as nice and pretty and kind as Sheila.

"Sheila?"

"Yes?"

"What do I do if... not like... doctors?"

"The other doctors? You will like them. They're good people."

"But... they not... you."

"You'll have to come back for check-ups. I'll still be your doctor, Mr. Caboose. So don't worry too much about the other doctors. If you don't like them, then just tell me when you come back."

"Okay. That... feel better."

Sheila handed him something. It was a woolly hat with earflaps. "Here. If you really want to cover the scars, this should hide most of them."

Caboose poked at the little pompom on the top. It was blue. It was a nice colour. And it would stop his sisters from being as scared...

It was a little thing, but he was so... overwhelmed by the gesture that he hugged Sheila really tightly. Or as tightly as he could. His arms were still much weaker than they used to be.

* * *

The next few days were very difficult.

Caboose had been scared the entire way home, because they had needed to drive. He'd spent the entire trip curled up in the back seat of the rented car (since the family truck had been completely busted) with his eyes covered and humming to try and block out the sound of the engine.

Mama had made him wait outside the house for a while. She had gone inside first, and eventually come back to guide him back inside. She kept talking in a weird voice. A weird voice that sounded a lot like how Mama spoke to Apples and her kitties. Except a lot sadder.

His sisters had been very quiet. Except for Mindi, who had tried to pull his hat off to see the scars. She was a weird five-year-old and she'd always liked cartoons with monsters on them. Perhaps that was why she wasn't as nervous and quiet as the others. Caboose hadn't let her remove the hat, instead tugging it further down.

No-one acted normal. The only one that tried was his stepfather. He still dragged Caboose out to help him drag in firewood. He had to use a wheelbarrow instead of the truck to bring it home, now. They still tried to have manly bonding time. But it was difficult, because Caboose kept dropping the wood. He didn't mean to, his arms just did not want to hold it for long. He kept dropping things, not just wood. And his fingers did not want to work as fast as they used to. Eventually, his stepfather sighed and told him to get some rest. He hadn't asked for help carrying wood again after that.

Everyone treated him like glass, and the worst part was Caboose really felt like it. Nothing worked. He used to be strong. He played football at school and he'd been very good at it. And he'd never been smart-smart, but he hadn't been... well... he hadn't been whatever he was now.

He heard Mama say something about how he shouldn't even go back to school, at least not for a while. Whether that was because he wasn't strong enough to leave the house or because he wasn't good at thinking any more was hard to say. None of his old friends came to visit him. He spent most of the day just staying in bed, occasionally doing laps of the room just to remind himself that he could still walk.

There'd been one more shock. He'd only realised it when his real dad came to visit.

* * *

"Michael!"

When his father shoved open the door, Caboose didn't bother to move from the bed. He just sat up and looked at his newest visitor. "What?" At the same time, his hands tightened around the flaps of his woolly hat.

"Aw, come on, that's no way to treat your ol' daddy." His dad plopped onto the end of the bed, studying him. Caboose looked back for a moment, then looked downwards. He didn't want to look, because aside from his general dislike of the man, Caboose's father looked near identical to how he'd looked before the accident, except older and with brown eyes. "Cripes, you look fucked up. I thought Margretta said you only hurt your head."

"I did... hurt... head," Caboose said haltingly, tugging the hat closer.

"Can I see?"

"No."

"Michael, come on. As a man with... fatherly authority—"

"No."

"Okay, fine. Well, give us a hug."

Caboose did so, although he hated hugging his dad, because he always smelt like cheap perfume and that glitter that strippers wear. But Mama always told him to be nice to Dad, even though he was an icky man.

Then he noticed that during the hug his father was trying to discreetly look underneath his woolly hat at the scars and immediately pulled away. He meant to say something that made sense, but instead all that came out was "Ahnehhhyeh?!"

"What? I just wanted to see the damage!" his dad said defensively. "I'm not going to laugh! Besides, if you show the scars to some girls, I bet you could get some tail. Chicks love scars and injured guys, there's a name for it and everything."

"Do... not... want to..."

"Oh, nonsense. I can even be your wingdad. Or you can be my wingson, chicks also love the protective dad taking care of his injured son deal."

This sort of nonsense had been normal for the last couple of years, with his father usually treating him as a friend and drinking buddy rather than a son, and never processing that it was inappropriate to try and sneak your son into strip clubs as a bonding experience.

Normally, Caboose put up with it and stayed quiet, because he didn't want to be rude.

Today was not one of those days.

"Goway," he mumbled quietly.

"Hm? What's that?"

"Go. Away," he said, loudly this time.

"What? Why would I want to—"

"Go away, go away, go away!" Caboose stood up, although he stumbled a little as he did so, and pointed at the door. "Get out! Leave... leave alone!"

"Michael, I'm just... I'm trying to be a dad, why are you so angry at—"

_Because I do not like you! Because if you were trying to be a proper dad, you would not have missed the first nine years of my life and spent the rest of the years trying to drag me into strip clubs even though I said they were way too sparkly! I do not like having to tip toe around all the no-underwear ladies that are always at your house! I do not want to be your stupid wingson! Whatever that is! Stay out of my life until you learn to be a proper dad!_

He couldn't make enough coherent words for that to come out properly, so all that came out was a long stream of gibberish. And then Dad still didn't move, and Caboose got mad...

And then he shoved him. He'd never gotten violent at a family member before, even one like Dad, and it wasn't very effective, because Caboose's arms were still weak as twigs. The only reason Dad had backed off was probably just surprise. If he hadn't left, Caboose probably would have tried to hit him again.

He'd just... suddenly felt so mad. He'd been angry before. But he'd never been... that angry. Not the sort of anger where he wanted to stomp on someone's face until they became a little red smudge. It used to be restrained. Now it wasn't.

Hours after his father left the house, Caboose curled back up on his bed. Apples trotted in and plopped down next to him, and Caboose scratched the kitty behind the ears because he loved Apples and Apples was the only thing in this house that wasn't afraid of him any more.

How could one blow to the head do all this? How could it make him stupid, weak and angry all at once? It made no sense...

* * *

"Ack. What's the big deal?" Donut muttered to himself, sprawled out on the couch and gazing at the wall. He had hung Chantilly lace from every shelf in the apartment. He loved the stuff, and didn't understand how anyone else could be sick of it.

And yet, he'd lost another roommate to it. They'd screamed that the lace was driving them insane and they couldn't deal with it anymore, and they had left. Donut did seem to run through roommates quickly. Why was it really so difficult to find a male roommate who didn't despise his taste in decoration?

Donut briefly considered cutting back on the lace. And then immediately decided that was a ridiculous idea. He would find a roommate that could put up with it. It couldn't be entirely impossible.

Perhaps it was why, during the process of interviewing possible roommates, he had made his first question 'do you like Chantilly lace?' If they said no, Donut assumed they would go mental at some point and politely guided them out.

After at least ten people saying they didn't like lace, Donut was starting to get a little depressed. When the doorbell rang for the eleventh time that week, Donut trudged somewhat grumpily to the door and swung it open.

He immediately shrieked and slammed the door, before going to hide under the couch.

It took him a while to come out again. He came out again when the doorbell rang once more. Donut hadn't meant to... well, get scared so quickly. It was just that the man out there was the spitting image of the serial killers that showed up on Mama Julie's programs. But those were television shows, not real life. Perhaps the man out there was an actor.

Donut opened the door slowly again.

"Uhm. I'm sorry about that. You have those creepy eyes and the bald head... And you're really tall! You just kinda reminded me of a serial killer. Sorry, I watched a lot of crime shows when I was at home. But we're cool, right?"

"..."

"You want to come in?"

"..."

"You're not very talkative, are you? Oh well, I can talk enough for both of us. I'm awesome at that. Mama Liz always said 'Crumbcake, you could talk the quills off a porcupine.' I don't know what that means, but I bet I really could." Donut continued filling in the quiet as he fluttered around the kitchen, making coffee. "You like coffee? Sugar? Cream? None of that?"

"..."

"Surprise, then? Okay."

Donut passed him a cup that had a lot of sweet stuff in it. Sugary coffee was yummier. "So, uh... You like Chantilly lace?"

"..."

Donut waved his hands at the lace decorating the shelves. "Chantilly. Lace. It has such a lovely texture, don't you think?"

Donut received a shrug in return.

_Well, that wasn't exactly a no... That's promising!_

"Well, you look like a guy that appreciates aesthetics. Great tattoo, by the way, what's it mean? Eh, time for that later. So, uh... What's your name?"

Donut received a strange growl in reply to that question.

"That's a lovely accent. Suits you. Do you have some kind of driver's licence or something on you? It's a nice accent, but I couldn't really understand it." Donut was handed an old library card. "...Huh. Never would have picked you for a reader. Well, I'm Donut. Nice to meet you, Maine."


	71. Chapter 66: Trophy

**Chapter Sixty-Six: Trophy**

Church didn't reach the infirmary before he saw North walking towards him. Head down and trying to rub the blood off his hands. He didn't even notice Church until he stopped in front of him.

"Hey, uh. North, right?"

"Yeah? What's going on, prison snitch?"

"Don't call me that, I'm not a fucking snitch! And that's beside the point. Did Dye-Job—I mean, Donut—come through here?"

"Oh, yeah. That. I did carry him through here, and he was just wheeled out by the guys that came with the ambulance. So, guess he passed through here. He just wasn't using his legs." North stopped wiping off his hands and focused on Church properly. "You're, uh... friends with him, right? Think I saw you sitting at the same table."

"Nah, he's a dick. But, uh..." Church crossed his arms. "Can I ask how he was hurt?"

North hesitated for a moment before shrugging. "You'd find out anyway, right? Can't hurt to say. Found him in the laundry room, beaten and sliced up to within a millimetre of his life. Missing an ear, too. Truth be told, not sure he was alive when they wheeled him out, sure didn't look it. But we don't know who did it. That answer things?"

"...Kinda. Okay, thanks for that. I guess."

"No problem, prison snitch."

"For the last time—ah, fuck it."

Church turned around and started walking right back to the yard. Well, North saved him half a walk to the infirmary, at least. It probably would have been a lot harder to get answers out of Wash. He was such a secretive bastard... plus, there was a lot of bad blood there. Even if Wash wasn't aware of it.

When Church reached the yard again, he found Tucker rubbing his nose.

"Tex hit me," Tucker sighed.

"Dammit, can't you go five seconds without hitting on anything slightly female?" Church snapped.

"Oh, you know the answer to that is a 'hell no.'" Tucker pointed at Church. "And don't play the ex-girlfriend card, you know I'm not violating the 'stay away from exes' rule unless I get to at least second base."

"Second base? That doesn't seem right. Anyway, I need to talk to someone else."

"Dude! Can you at least tell me what's going on?"

"Later. I gotta tell Tex something before O'Malley leaves the yard."

"Alright, alright. Jeez. I'll just go and talk to... I dunno, that flag-worshipping guy... and hope he doesn't attack me for being 'the antithesis of Red' again. Crazy bastard. But it's better than getting hit by Tex again."

"Right, okay. Just stay in the fucking yard."

"What are you, my mother?"

* * *

The first words that were out of Simmons' mouth, post-sex, were "I need a fucking toothbrush."

"And I need some cigarettes. But we can't have everything, can we?" Grif said, grinning at Simmons. Simmons rolled his eyes before snuggling deeper into Grif, resting his head against the crook between Grif's neck and shoulder.

"You don't need more cigarettes. You taste enough like cigarette smoke and old alcohol as it is. It's disgusting."

"Oh, you're being picky." Grif yawned loudly, before saying, "When do you think they'll let us out?"

"For fighting and drinking? Probably not for a few days."

"Awesome. That's like a fucking holiday. Just you, me and a really crappy mattress. Plus making the occasional guard really uncomfortable."

Simmons went slightly pink. "Yeah. Good times, mostly."

For the longest time, they just lay there. Grif was nodding off to sleep before Simmons spoke.

"Grif?"

"Yeah?"

There was a pause. "You know, if I could walk out of here tomorrow on the condition that I leave you behind... I wouldn't do it. You know that, right?"

Grif buried his face in Simmons' hair and grasped his hand, interlacing their fingers together. "Of course I fucking know that. But... guess it's nice to hear you haven't changed your mind about it. Or whatever. Thanks, man."

Simmons hummed contently. "No problem."

"Hey, Simmons?"

"Yeah?"

"Who do you think would win in a fight? Batman or the Flash?"

* * *

"Why would he be chopping off ears?"

"Do you have to ask, Tex? He's a fucking madman! Why wouldn't he? Besides, you know the kind of crap they found in his house when he got locked up, right? Shoe box full of preserved 'trophies?' He's fucking nuts."

Tex was keeping a watch over the yard, her arms crossed. Church stood next to her, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. Significantly more agitated.

"Yeah, I know that. But I can't go over there and search him without a better reason than 'the prison snitch said so.'"

"I'm a fucking blackmailer!"

Tex raised an eyebrow. "You're not supposed to go telling that to prison guards."

"Yeeeeeah, but you already know. I get, like, a quarter of the information off you."

"Point taken. But if I say you told me to, you'll be suspected. So, why are you so sure O'Malley has an ear in that sock?"

"Because he's done it before." Church reached up to touch one of his own ears, and shivered. "I've seen him. Wish I hadn't, but I have. Dunno why he'd risk it now, though, there's no point in keeping trophies..."

"So, you admit it makes no sense?"

"O'Malley doesn't make sense, full stop."

He's fucking angry about something. Will you just go over there and check him?"

"Eh, what the hell. Sure. He'll probably be suspected in this, anyway. He's always checked when something that bloody happens. If anyone asks... I won't mention you, I'll just say that I suspected him."

"Alright. Awesome."

Church sat down to watch as Tex approached O'Malley, who was now sitting by himself. Wyoming had moved across the yard, and was now bartering with inmates, trading cigarettes for coffee supplies. Church couldn't hear the conversation, but he saw O'Malley leer, turning the rolled-up sock over in his hands.

The next minute mostly consisted of Tex trying to get O'Malley to hand over the sock. Eventually, she tugged it from his hands. O'Malley gave it up far too easily. Church saw Tex unravel the sock and peer inside, before throwing it back at O'Malley and motioning for him to stand up.

Tex then searched O'Malley properly. Which always made Church grit his teeth. Sure, Tex was being professional about having to feel down O'Malley's pant legs. But that grin on O'Malley's face... At one point, O'Malley said something. Church didn't know what it was, but the reaction from Tex was to punch him in the face before storming back towards Church.

"Clean."

"Clean? No fucking way."

Tex shrugged. "Didn't have anything on him. I checked."

"Yeah, I saw."

"Why would he be keeping it in a rolled-up sock, anyway?" Tex crossed her arms, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Very specific, Church."

"Don't look at me like that. When have I ever lied to you?"

"The first time we met. You said your last name was Kirk and that you worked as a delivery man."

"Well, the delivery part was sometimes true. In a manner of speaking."

* * *

"Why can't I put the cot back with the rest of the fort?" Caboose asked.

"I told you. We need at least one cot for other patients," Wash said. He had returned to using the counter as a headrest.

"People can share the fort. It is much more comfortable."

"Not everyone appreciates forts."

"Yes, they do."

Wash wondered if it would be worth using up the rest of the sleeping pills to keep Caboose quiet. It was pointless arguing, in any case. Drilling through Caboose's logic was nigh impossible, the kid simply could not understand the concept of someone hating a fort. But... the sleeping pills would probably be more useful later on, if Donut survived long enough to get transferred back to the infirmary.

"Is it tomorrow, yet?"

"Technically, it's always today. Do you mean since you were last awake? Because it's still the same day."

"Oh. I was hoping it was tomorrow. Then Donut would come and see me. And he said he was going to bring Margretta and read stories to me."

Wash kept his eyes away from Caboose. "Well... You'll just have to wait and see if he shows up tomorrow."

Wash may have hated listening to Caboose. But even more so, he didn't want the kid freaking out on him. That had the potential to be dangerous.

Caboose frowned, settled back on the fort, hugging his pillow tightly as a substitute for his soft toy. "Mister Washingtub?"

"What?"

"Why does the room smell like when people fall over?"

"That's because... when you were asleep, someone came into the infirmary and tripped. That's what the smell is from."

"It must have been a very painful trip."

"Yes. Yes, it was."

* * *

"I told you that carrying your trophy around was a bad idea, chum. If you hadn't seen Church trying to squeal on your activities..."

O'Malley had wandered back to Wyoming once Tex had traded shifts with North. Church had since vanished as well, along with his little con-artist friend. O'Malley sat back down next to Wyoming.

"It turned out fine, didn't it?" He held out his hand. Wyoming handed back the rolled-up sock that really did have the ear inside it. "I suppose I owe you one for carrying it for me."

"Throw a packet of cigarettes my way in the next week and I'll consider us even." Wyoming made sure North wasn't watching before handing O'Malley the phone. "How long will you need it for?"

"One night. Just the one." O'Malley grinned down at the phone before pocketing it. "After that, it won't matter."

"Do you think the doctor is going to run back here because you simply asked him?"

"No, I don't. But he won't run forever." O'Malley grinned. "He can't bear to see other people hurt, especially if he can prevent it. He'll come back one way or another. Even if I have to drag him back in person. He'll come back."

"Hm. You and your hobbies. I suppose one must stay entertained somehow."


	72. Chapter 67: House Call

**Chapter Sixty-Seven: Home Call**

The phone rang three times. On the fourth ring, Doc answered.

"Hello?"

"I suppose it's not correct to call you 'Doc' anymore, is it?"

There was a long, drawn out pause. O'Malley held the mobile to his ear, but all he could hear was breathing. Very shaky breathing.

"Actually, I don't think calling you 'Doc' was ever correct. But that is neither here or there, is it?" O'Malley continued, smiling widely.

"No. No, no, no. This shouldn't... shouldn't be happening," Doc whimpered. "How..."

O'Malley grinned, settled back on his cot. "Shouldn't be happening. But yet it is. ...Lovely purple pajamas, by the way." He heard Doc yelp and loud footsteps, before hearing a swishing noise that sounded a lot like curtains being shoved open. O'Malley laughed quietly. "You have nothing to worry about. I can't see you."

"How'd you... know my pyjamas were purple?"

"I've seen you walk into the infirmary in your pajamas before. You just put a jacket over them during late-night calls."

There was more silence, before Doc whispered, "How did you find me? How did you get my number?"

O'Malley smiled. "You remember when I stole your keys? It didn't happen long ago. There was a little purple tag on your set of keys. It had your number on there. Not very clever, Doc, to write down your number inside a prison. I carved it on the wall for future reference. I am rather prone to forgetting things, after the... mishaps with the pills." O'Malley touched the wall just beside his cot, where he had carved Doc's phone number, his fingers tracing the outlines. "But once again, we're getting distracted from the subject."

"T-There's nothing to talk about."

"Yes, there is. Come back."

"No. No, I... I can't."

"Doc, Doc, Doc. Did I phrase that like you had a choice in the matter? You're not allowed to just leave. How many times have I told you that?"

"I don't care, I... I did too much harm, there. And... And I'm not going back."

"Is that the only reason you're staying away?"

"No, you... I'm... I'm staying away from you..."

"Are you? Then why haven't you hung up, yet?"

"That... would be rude," Doc said faintly. O'Malley chuckled.

"Oh, yes. It would be. But it's no more so than running away and leaving me here. That's not how it works. Incidentally, I have something to show you that might change your mind."

"What? You... How can you..."

"Just give me a second."

O'Malley carefully unwrapped the sock, tugged out Donut's severed ear. It had long since bled out what little blood it had, and was a rather fascinating colour. After a few moments of fiddling around with the mobile phone, O'Malley managed to snap a picture.

"I wanted to present you with this personally, but that's obviously not possible at the moment," O'Malley said, just before sending the picture.

There was a few moments of silence. And then Doc screamed, and O'Malley heard a clatter.

"Drop the phone, did you? I would have thought you'd be used to seeing blood in your profession!" O'Malley cackled, loud enough so Doc could still hear him, even if he'd dropped the phone. He heard movement, and then Doc screaming at him.

"Whose ear is that?! What are you doing?! Are you completely insane?! How... what... aaaaagh!" Doc devolved into just a mass of hysteria for the next few minutes. O'Malley just grinned and listened peacefully, in much the same manner that one would listen to a relaxing lulluby.

When Doc finally stopped screaming, O'Malley continued.

"In answer to the three legible questions I heard... One. That ear formerly belonged to one Franklin Delano Donut. Possibly dead, possibly just very hurt. I don't know. Two. I'm giving you a small taste of what will happen if you don't return. And three... I think you know the answer to that, Doc."

"What will... I don't understand... I d-don't..."

"Oh. I think you do." O'Malley lowered his voice. "You don't think I'll stop at just an ear, do you? For every week you stay away from this place, someone gets hurt. Not just a scraped knee or a black eye. Hurt irreversably. Perhaps I might even indulge in some good old-fashioned murder. It has been a long time. The longer you stay away, the more people hurt. The more people die. You know I can do it. You just saw that ear. You've seen York's bad eye. Now, that was for shits and giggles. What do you think I'll do when I actually have a motivation?"

"No... Please, O'Malley... P-Please don't..."

"It's too late." O'Malley's voice got harsher as he went on. "You shouldn't have left, Doc. You made me very, very upset. You. Hurt. Me. I'm just repaying the favour. Whatever happens to the pastry, and whatever happens to the others... It's on your hands. Until you end it, it's on your hands!"

O'Malley went silent, waiting for a response. Then he heard breathing. Muffled, wet breathing...

"I can't... I can't go back! I just... I-I can't..." Doc sobbed. "I can't go back, don't make me go back... I can't... I can't... I'm sorry, I can't... I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

O'Malley held the phone to his ear, listening to Doc break down with a blank face. He wondered how badly he'd broken his toy. He'd clearly done more than just scratch the paint job.

"You should be sorry, Doc. It's your fault," O'Malley whispered. "I'm going to hang up now. If you're not back in a week, you'll have much more to be sorry for."

He snapped the phone shut on Doc's wailing before slipping the phone into his pocket. It wasn't too long before curfew. Returning the phone now would probably be wise.

And he needed to pass on the trophy...

* * *

"I have something for you."

Church had been reading (and not absorbing a word of it) when he heard O'Malley's voice. Immediately he jumped off the cot and sprung to his feet, holding the book in front of him as it was the closest thing to a weapon he had in his cell.

"Get the fuck out, O'Malley," Church growled.

"Now, that's just rude. I'm simply here to give you something." O'Malley pulled the rolled-up sock out of his jacket, tossed it unceremoniously at Church. Church didn't reach down to grab it, although he could see traces of blood staining the grey fabric.

"You sick fuck."

"Forgive me if I thought you would want the missing piece of your little pastry back. I was just attempting to be nice."

"Nice? Nice?! That word doesn't exist in your dictionary, now fuck off!"

"Not so fast." O'Malley grinned, clasped his hands together. "I'm here to negotiate. Giving back your pastry portion was a side thing. A sign of good faith, if you will. I require your help with something, and I think it's in your best interest to help me."

"Fuck off."

"You don't even want to hear it?" O'Malley frowned slightly. "Don't you want to leave this prison?"

"Escape?" Church laughed bitterly. "You want to escape? Can't be fucking done. I don't know why you'd think I'd be able to. But I don't have that magical secret. And if I did, then I wouldn't tell you. So there's no point in talking about it."

"Perhaps not on our own. But you... You could still connect someone on the outside who could help. One of your old minions, perhaps. I'm sure Delta would still listen to you. Epsilon certainly would. I'm sure he'd be happy to see you again."

"Shut. The fuck up. About Epsilon," Church growled, through gritted teeth.

O'Malley's grin reappeared on his face. "Don't you want to see little Eddie? Don't you miss him? Or don't you care about him anymore?"

"I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Church jumped forward and smacked O'Malley square in the face with the book he'd been holding, before dropping it and slamming O'Malley against the wall. Before he could act on any other violent instincts, he felt something against his throat.

"Do you really want to do that? Because I've wanted to slice your throat out for years," O'Malley said softly, his grin stretching so wide that Church thought it was going to split his face into two. "Twenty-five years, to be precise." His fingers drummed against the sharp screwdriver he had to Church's throat. He pressed it closer, forcing Church to back away a couple of steps. O'Malley moved forward, keeping the screwdriver at his throat. "I might not even need to escape if all goes well, but if it doesn't... Then I'd like to have something prepared. And your help would make it go so much smoother."

"I don't care if you slice my throat open right now. I'm not helping you, asswipe!"

"Be that way, Church. Be that way if you truly want to. But it might have some nasty consequences, especially for your dear little meringue." O'Malley moved the screwdriver along Church's throat, before moving it further upwards, grazing the side of his face. Perhaps unintentionally due to the shaking, he pressed it a bit too hard to Church's face, drawing just a little bit of blood. "Although it would be a shame to damage that pretty face of his."

"That's why you hurt Donut?" Church attempted to sound horrified. He was, a little bit. But he tried playing it up, hoping he didn't sound ridiculous. He still didn't want O'Malley to guess the truth.

"Well, no. That was a matter of principle..." O'Malley moved the screwdriver back towards Church's throat. "Think about it, Church. No more grey walls, no more of the same meals over and over. Freedom, Church. You've already gone fifteen years, and I heard you went a bit mad after just the fifth year. Tried to kill yourself, did you not?"

Church didn't answer, he just tried to keep his face impassive.

"And the company you keep. Do you really think that blond idiot will always be around to protect you? Any shield can only deflect so many blows before it shatters. One day they'll be an attack that's just too much for him and he'll be gone. That con-artist... Do you really think he feels anything close to loyalty? He's a con-artist, he makes his living off lying. As soon as a better deal comes along, he will leave you behind. And that pastry. He won't be here forever. As well-behaved as he is, he's practically guaranteed parole when it comes up. He will take that parole and never look back. None of them will be here forever. And you will. Eventually... you'll be left all alone again."

Church still tried to keep his face blank. Even though O'Malley had just tapped into a fear that came into his mind every day. Even if he'd gotten some of it muddled... He didn't worry about Tucker's loyalty. But he knew all too well... that Tucker wouldn't always be there. That better deal... That better deal was Tucker's family. If Tucker got the chance to be with his son, he would leave Church behind for it. Church had no illusions about that.

He'd tried to keep his face blank. But a flicker of uncertainty and fear escaped across his face, not even for a second. O'Malley started laughing again.

"I know you, Church. I know what you fear. And if you stay here, then what you fear will come to pass."

For one moment... For that one moment, Church wanted to agree. Say yes to whatever ridiculous escape plan O'Malley had made up. Even though he knew... He knew how much trouble it would cause. He knew that O'Malley was delusional, there was no way he could contact Delta for help. There was no way he would contact Eddie, even if he could. But for that moment, Church didn't care. He wanted to agree, and it took everything he had not to say anything at all.

"So little to lose... And so much more to gain. And if you don't listen to me, you'll lose it all. Just a simple yes, Church. A simple yes is all you need to—"

And then O'Malley abruptly stopped talking and froze. So did Church. Because suddenly there was a shiv at O'Malley's throat.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out," Tucker growled from behind O'Malley, pressing the shiv to O'Malley's throat, close enough so that a drop of blood leaked out and dripped down O'Malley's neck. Tucker's eyes were narrowed, he looked uncharacteristically serious and his grip on the shiv was a lot steadier than O'Malley's.

"I guess that settles it for now," O'Malley sighed. "Pity. I was so sure you were about to crack..." He lowered his screwdriver. Tucker kept his shiv where it was.

"I could slit his throat right now," Tucker muttered. "Tex would never have to know."

"Yeah, because the bleeding corpse on the floor of my cell wouldn't be a tipoff at all," Church muttered, ashamed when his voice shook slightly. Tucker stepped backwards, forcing O'Malley to move out of the cell with him, and only removed the shiv once O'Malley was completely out. Tucker moved around, standing in front of O'Malley, shiv still held at the ready.

"Stay away from us. Church might insist on not killing people, but I don't go by those rules," Tucker hissed. "You stay the fuck away."

O'Malley grinned lazily, twirling his own screwdriver with his hands. "I believe I won the last time it came to that, didn't I?" His eyes moved over the scar across Tucker's face before he looked back to Church. "If that's the way you're going to play it... It's your funeral. Well... Maybe not your funeral, exactly." As O'Malley left, he kept giggling to himself.

Tucker only lowered the shiv when he was gone.

"Well, that was fucked up," he said, stepping back into Church's cell. Already, he'd switched back to his normal lazy grin so quickly that it threw Church off a bit. "You alright?"

Church didn't answer. He was just tracing his fingers along where the screwdriver had scraped him, looking troubled. Wondering if he'd made the right choice.

"Church?"

"What?" Church looked up. "Oh. Right. Yeah. Fine. Fine. Good. Fine." He sat down on his cot. "Good. Fine. Fine. Good. Good."

"You're freaking me out a little."

"Jesus." Church ran his fingers nervously through his hair, before looking back at Tucker. "I... owe you one, I guess."

"Nah. It's part payback for not being an asshole about the Junior thing. Besides... What was I supposed to do? You and me, we're like..." Tucker struggled for an analogy for a moment. "Like wingmen. Except instead of picking up chicks, we're stopping each other from getting stabbed."

"Right." Church's eyes moved down to the shiv Tucker was holding. "Why the fuck are you carrying that around?"

"I've had it for years. I got it around the time you were stuck in solitary years ago, because I thought Caboose was going to try and make me 'fall over.' Sorry it took me so long to grab, I couldn't remember where I hid it."

"It's fine... So, you heard all of that?"

"My cell is right there, of course I did." Tucker raised an eyebrow. "Though, seriously? You and Dye-Job? I thought you had much better taste than that."

_Oh, goddammit._

"Of course I have better fucking taste than that," Church snapped defensively. "Dye-Job is far too... sugary."

"Really." It was amazing how much sarcasm Tucker could fit into those two syllables. "Which is why you ran off to the infirmary as soon as you figured out Donut was hurt. Or why you gave him protection ages ago. God, you really were paying him for 'health benefits.'" Tucker paused for a moment, then under his breath muttered, "Bow chicka bow wow."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You're blowing this way out of proportion. I told you, Donut was blackmailing me!"

"With what?"

_Shit... I can't tell him that..._ "That's not important right now!" Church yelled. Tucker grinned slyly at him.

"Oh, yes it is. Well, guess your taste never was brilliant. You dated Tex, after all..."

"Hey!"

"But okay. Whatever floats your boat. I mean, it's weird as fuck. But okay."

_Well, that's just fucking fantastic..._


	73. Chapter 68: Wake Up

**Chapter Sixty-Eight: Wake Up**

Caboose frowned at the door. He couldn't count too well, but he was sure it had been a long time since Donut had last shown up, because he'd gone to sleep a lot since.

"Mister Washingtub! How long has it been since Captain Buttermuffin was here?"

"For the fifth time today... It's been three days. Now be quiet!"

Caboose curled up a little more, still gazing at the door. Why would Donut not visit him? Maybe he thought it was a silly waste of time. Or maybe he was doing something like working with O'Malley again. Caboose hoped he wasn't, but that would keep him safer, at least... Or maybe he was just busy. No, that was silly. No-one was ever busy in prison. Except Church. Church had also not visited after the first time. He was probably busy. Busy talking to people and doing things that were not very nice, but Church had good reasons to because Church was never wrong. Church not being there didn't bother him as much, because he was used to that. But Donut...

The phone at the back of the infirmary rang, and Wash removed his forehead from the countertop, before getting to his feet.

Donut said he would bring Margretta... Caboose missed having something to cuddle at night, when it was dark and scary and sometimes he thought there were bogeymen under the bed. And Wash would not let him leave to get it because he kept accidentally tearing his stitches. Caboose didn't mean to, he just kept forgetting that he couldn't stretch his arms over his head without the tearing and hurting.

Wash had picked up the phone, and was listening to someone on it.

"You have got to be kidding me," Wash muttered. "You're sure about that? He did bleed a lot. Really? Okay, then. How long will that take?"

Caboose missed his pigeon. And he missed Church. And he missed Captain Buttermuffin. He did not like the infirmary. And Mister Washingtub was a bit scary, sometimes. Especially when he got angry.

"You sure we'll be able to support him here? This place doesn't have much equipment. I'm not even sure we have an IV. ...What is that? ...Don't yell at me like that, I'm not a doctor... No, really. I don't have time to explain, take that up with the warden."

Caboose wondered if it was possible to get Donut to show up with the power of his mind, like in that movie with all the lights and spaceships. But that probably worked better if your brain worked properly and didn't hurt and feel foggy all the time.

"How long will it take to transport him here? Can you take fifteen minutes longer than that? ...No, I just need to fix something first. ...Alright." Wash hung up, started moving around again, taking something out of the cabinet. He did that whenever he was about to give Caboose orange juice.

Caboose did not want the orange juice. He liked orange juice, but lately it always made him very sleepy. He did not want to be sleepy. He wanted to wait for Donut. Maybe Donut was showing up when he was asleep, and he was missing it because he had drunk too much orange juice.

"Drink." Wash handed Caboose a cup of orange juice. Caboose shook his head.

"I am waiting for Donut. And I am not thirsty."

"I wasn't asking you. I was telling you. Now drink it." Wash tapped his fingers against the nightstick he was still carrying on his belt, despite his temporary doctor status. Caboose gazed at the nightstick nervously for a moment, before reluctantly drinking the juice. He did not want Wash hitting him again.

Some time went by. Wash looked annoyed about something. He kept getting up and pacing. Caboose kept watching the door. He got sleepy, but he tried to stay awake. Just in case. It was getting a little bit difficult, though...

Not long after he started getting tired, Wash checked his watch before getting up again.

"I have to check something. I'll be back within the next ten minutes. Don't leave the cot," Wash said shortly, before opening the door and leaving.

It was the first time Wash had left Caboose alone without locking the door. Caboose blinked at the door a few times, then climbed to his feet. Wash could not stop him from leaving when he was not there. Caboose could go get his pigeon! And maybe he could find Donut! Caboose snuck out the door quickly, just in case Wash came back soon.

The walk to the cells was strange. Caboose was getting very, very sleepy, and he sort of thought that he might have just been dreaming walking down to the cells. Maybe he had already fallen asleep on the way and was just lying around the walkways somewhere...

The cells were quiet. No-one was there. No Church or Tucker. No Grif and Simmons. No Mr. Spaniel. No Donut. It was kind of creepy.

Caboose found his cell. Margretta was lying on the bed, exactly where Caboose had left her the day that O'Malley hurt him. Caboose picked her up and cuddled her to his chest for a few moments, before starting to walk back to the infirmary. He did not want to go back, but Mister Washingtub might yell at him if he didn't. And shouting was never nice. It hurt the ears.

The walk back was tough. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open. But he made it back. The door was closed, but Caboose could hear voices.

"Yeah... I think I've got it."

"You can't just get it, people go through training for this. You can't become a doctor just because you can stitch and have been told how to place a drip."

"I didn't exactly choose to be one, you know."

Caboose only recognised Wash's voice. Before Caboose could open the door, it opened in front of him and a man wearing a blue uniform walked out. It had plus signs on it, like what hospitals have. That was weird. Caboose stepped into the infirmary. Wash was standing over a cot and fiddling with one of those baggies on a stick that hospitals have. Caboose remembered having one of those stuck in him. It was itchy. And on the cot was...

Caboose's insides went very, very cold.

"Donut?"

Wash glanced quickly at him before returning his attention back to the baggie. "I told you not to leave. Get back on the cot and go to sleep."

Caboose barely heard him. He just approached the cot very slowly. If the walk down to the cells had felt like a dream, this felt like a nightmare. Not one of the angry nightmares, like that one when an evil mechanical Santa tried to eat him. It was a lot quieter. Like the nightmares about Mama. Those were the scariest ones. And this was even scarier because he wasn't sure it was a dream... He hoped it was, but...

"Caboose..." Wash said warningly.

It took so long to walk across the infirmary to Donut. It only took a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

_Please, please make it a dream... Please..._

Caboose knelt beside Donut's cot. He heard Wash protesting about something, but it sounded distant. Caboose ignored him.

Donut's eyes were closed. And when Caboose touched his hand, there was no response.

"Donut? Donut?"

His hand was too warm, like it had been kept really close to a heater. That meant that Donut had... had not fallen over. Because people who had fallen over were always very cold. But the hand was covered in bruises. Both his arms were badly bruised, and there were stitches in some places. Caboose couldn't have held Donut's other hand, because it was covered in a cast. Donut was wearing one of the nightshirts the hospital made people wear, but there was still bruises around what little of Donut's torso Caboose could see. So many bruises... It was very colourful, but in a really sad way. Donut's hair had been shaved off, and there were bandages on his head, especially on the side. No wonder Donut wasn't responding, he couldn't hear Caboose with bandages covering his ear.

"Donut?" Caboose repeated in a louder voice. "Donut? Donut? Please wake up. Please..."

"He's not going to wake up just because you tell him to," Wash muttered under his breath.

Caboose kept ignoring him. He held Donut's hand tighter, his fingers tracing the bruises lightly. Finally, that made Donut move just a little. He didn't wake up, but his fingers moved just a little.

_This... This should not have happened... It was not supposed to happen... Donut was supposed to be safe... Who would be mean like this? ...O'Malley would, but... But why did he... Why did he have to hurt Donut?_

"Caboose. I said get back on the cot. You can't do anything for him, and I don't want you crushing his hand on accident." .

"I am not moving," Caboose said quietly. "Not until Donut wakes up."

"He'll be fine, you getting in the way is not going to help," Wash snapped. Caboose looked back down at Donut.

"I am staying right here, Donut. I will not leave you alone. Not again. I will stay here..." Caboose blinked. His eyelids kept drooping, and he did not want them to. "Even though... the stupid orange juice is making me tired..."

Caboose looked downwards. He still had Margretta tucked under his arm. He let go of Donut's hand for just a moment, only to move Donut's arm so he could tuck Margretta under it.

"I... I think you will need something to hug. Margretta is good for that... A-And you need her more than I do..." Caboose shook his head. His eyes were getting watery. "I am... I am really sorry. I was supposed to protect you, and I keep... I keep messing it up... Just like I mess up everything... I'm sorry..." Tears spilled out, dripped onto Donut's hand. Caboose frowned, wiped them off with his sleeve. "And now I am getting your hand wet. Sorry..."

"Back to the cot." Wash stopped fiddling with the bag, attempted to drag Caboose back to the cot. Caboose absolutely refused to budge. He barely even noticed the insistent tugging. Eventually Wash gave up. "Fine. You'll go to sleep soon, anyway."

Caboose stroked Donut's hand gently. "You will be fine. Right, Donut? ...Please be fine. I... I really need you to be fine... I... I really... I really need you to stay..." Tears kept trickling down his face, and Caboose tried to get them to stop. He didn't want Donut to see... Caboose's stepdad had always said that crying was not something men did. But he couldn't stop. "Please don't leave me... Don't leave me like... Like Mama did... She did not listen when I told her to stay... But you will stay... Right? Right, Muffin Man?"

Caboose intertwined his fingers with Donut's before resting his head on the cot. He drifted off to sleep while still talking to Donut, still asking him to wake up and be okay.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Sarge in is a meeting. Yes. ...Yes, I'll pass on the message." Flowers dropped the phone on the receiver, also dropping his 'secretary' voice at the same time. He and Sarge were not playing cards that day. Sarge had acquired a chess set, and brought it to work. He had claimed he needed to get it out of the house because the wife kept beating him at it. And it was just embarrassing for an ex-soldier to be beaten by his wife at a game that was based around war strategy.

Not that it mattered now. He was currently losing to Flowers.

"Hah. Got your knight, dirtbag," Sarge declared, moving his queen into place. Flowers sighed, before moving his bishop.

"Got your queen."

"Ah, codfish... This game is rigged."

"Phone call from Vic. The hospital told him you have no doctor here. He said 'that's no good, dude' and says that if you don't get one in the next three days that you'll be, and I quote, 'flamed right outta here.'"

"I'll be fired? Damn that two-timing Washington, he must have told the hospital. And not having to pay a proper doctor was doing so much good for the budget." Sarge moved his remaining castle. "Well, maybe we can locate one as incompetent as Doc. That'll give us an excuse to stick with the current pay. And we'll be able to keep clearing out the cells. It'll be perfect!"

"About that... Vic also wanted to know about the unusually high amount of people dying in here."

"Just tell him there was a..." Sarge waved his hand around for a second, pondering excuses. "...a flesh-eating plague."

"Can do. Maybe tone it down a little and just say there was a nasty virus in the water supply?"

"I said flesh-eating plague!"

"Okay..." Flowers moved one of his remaining pawns. "Checkmate."

"Best out of ten! It's rigged! Rigged, I say!"

"I wouldn't do that. Cheating is no fun, Sarge. And two games ago, you're the one who tried changing the pieces when I wasn't looking."

"Goshdang it to heck."


	74. Chapter 69: Bow Chika Bow Wow

**Chapter Sixty-Nine: Bow Chika Bow Wow**

"Hey, Wash. Guess what?" York said as he walked into the infirmary.

Wash was in the middle of trying to drag Caboose, once again, away from Donut's cot. Every time he fell asleep, Wash would haul him back to his own cot. A difficult task on its own, he was a huge guy. But then, every time Caboose woke up he would immediately move back again and go right back to holding Donut's hand. It felt like an endless loop, even though it'd only been going on for two days. Dragging Caboose back when he was awake, as he was now, was downright impossible.

"Just give me a second. You're in the way, Caboose! Come on—ow." Wash yanked his hand back. "Did you just bite me?!"

"It did not taste good," Caboose muttered. Wash rubbed his hand for a few moments, before turning to York.

"So, what were you saying?"

"Sarge found a replacement doctor. You'll go back to being a guard tomorrow."

"Okay."

York studied his face. "You don't look too happy. But you always look kinda grumpy, so I guess that's normal."

"On the inside I'm dancing with joy, I swear," Wash said flatly.

"Can you dance with joy on the outside?"

"No. Never."

"Damn." York sighed. "I feel like I missed a really golden moment there. By the way, Sarge wants to know who attacked Donut. You know how he gets about people damaging the Reds. Plus, I think Donut did his laundry once, that time when his wife kicked him out and he slept in his office for a week. You know who did it?"

"It was O'Malley," Caboose insisted.

"You didn't see that, though. You were in here."

"It is always O'Malley!" Caboose practically screamed, clinging onto Donut's hand tighter. "It is always him! Always!"

"Great. That's the cue for his orange juice," Wash muttered. "But... he's probably right. Just throw O'Malley into solitary. Or kill him and make it look like an accident. That'd be a more long-term solution."

"Can't solve all your problems with killing, Wash."

"Yeah, it won't fix your blind eye. Now, if we'd killed him when he first came in..."

York reached up, defensively covering his bad eye. "Hey, I'm not blind. I can still see with it. It just hurts when I read, that's all. You are always far too interested in hurting people. You scare me, sometimes."

Wash snorted. "Well, being able to scare people isn't a bad thing." He rubbed his hand a bit more, frowning. "Although it doesn't seem to stop inmates from biting like dogs."

"People taste really icky," Caboose said. This time, he was directing his words at Donut. "Like eating raw steak. Which I only tried once. That was not very nice. That was even worse than how people taste. Tasted like when I tried to eat some coins..."

Wash massaged his forehead for a moment. "Great... Definitely time for orange juice, before I have to listen to another three hours of him rambling to Donut about whatever comes to his mind."

"Well, I think I read somewhere that talking to people when they're in comas is recommended."

"Maybe under normal circumstances, but if I was listening to that drivel then I'd just want to stay unconscious even more," Wash muttered.

"Harsh."

* * *

"Alright, you two can go—ew, guys, I said stick a sock through the slot or something so I know when you're doing your thing." North quickly turned his back. "Put some clothes on. Then you can leave."

"Overreaction, much? We've still got our underwear on," Grif complained. "Why'd he have to interrupt just when it was getting good."

"Grif. Get your hand out of my pants," Simmons muttered. He'd gone bright red, as he tended to do whenever one of the guards opened the door, normally to deliver food, and spotted them boning.

"But it was getting good... Fine, be that way. To be continued."

"Guys, discuss your bedroom behaviour somewhere else, hurry up," North said.

"Wuss."

After quickly getting dressed and kicked out of the solitary cell by North, Grif and Simmons made their way back towards the cells. It was quiet, and no-one was around except for Lopez, who was sitting on his cot and flicking through a book.

"Hey, Lopez. Where the hell is everyone?" Grif asked.

"_The fruit and the idiot are in the infirmary. The others are in the yard._"

"Haven't seen them, huh? Okay, whatever."

"Why ask if you're not going to listen? Idiots."

"Let's go check the yard." Simmons sniffed at his jacket, then wrinkled his nose. "Need to find Donut. He's better at getting the stink out of clothes."

"Yeah, but only because it always smells girly afterwards."

"Point taken, but it's better than just smelling bad."

"I dunno. Smelling like lavender is more likely to get you beaten up. Like how having long, girly hair basically tags you as a bitch."

They debated the pros and cons of smelling like a girl all the way to the yard. When they got there, they couldn't see Donut anywhere. They only saw Church and Tucker sitting in the corner of the yard, talking.

"Hey. Douchebags!" Grif called out as they got closer.

"Yeah, nice to see you, too," Tucker said. Church's response was just an annoyed grunt.

"Where's Donut? You seen him?"

"Shit, you don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"This is gonna be awkward..."

* * *

"Take the orange juice."

"No."

"Take it."

"No."

"Caboose. I will knock you out."

"I am not drinking it. I am not moving. And there is nothing that you can do about it."

"There is plenty I can do about it. Don't make me pepper spray you again."

This continued back and forth between Wash and Caboose, Wash still holding out the cup of orange juice. York sat in the corner, watching. He didn't particularly want to get in the middle of it. Although if it came to violence, he probably would have to.

Caboose glare was getting rather intense. Even with his somewhat dysfunctional brain, he was starting to get a bit suspicious about the constant offerings of orange juice and the subsequent sleepiness. "I do not want to drink it. You are going to put me back over there when I get sleepy. And I do not want to. I want to be here with Private Biscuit. He needs me to be here."

"Somehow, I don't think someone holding his hand so tightly that it's probably preventing the blood from flowing is something he needs. Now drink the orange juice!"

"No!" With that, Caboose lashed out and slapped the cup out of Wash's hands, splattering the contents all over the floor.

In one swift movement, Wash grabbed Caboose's head and jerked him forward, at the same time pulling the pepper spray out of his belt and holding the nozzle just an inch from Caboose's eye, finger hovering right over the spray button.

"Mistake," Wash said coldly. Caboose looked more afraid now, although he seemed more discomfited by the hand that was gripping his head than the nozzle aimed at his eye. Even so, he refused to let go of Donut's hand. "Let go. Or I will spray this entire can in your eyes."

Caboose hesitated for a moment, but then he shook his head. "No."

York had gotten to his feet, hands stretched out. "Wash! That's not necessary!"

"Yeah, it's not," said a slightly raspy voice. "Don't be mean, Wash."

"Don't interrupt, Donut," Wash said dismissively, before pausing. "...Wait."

Donut shifted slightly, like he was going to try and sit up, but even just shifting made him whine in pain. "Ow... Oh, that really, really stings..."

"Admiral Buttercrust!" Caboose yelled happily. "You are awake!" He squirmed out of Wash's grip, which had slackened slightly when he'd realised Donut was no longer unconscious, and practically threw himself at Donut, hugging him. Although he had to stop quickly when Donut hissed in pain at the contact. "Oh... Sorry..."

"It's okay." Donut's voice was raspy, and it sounded like it was taking a lot of effort to speak. "How'd I get here? Wasn't I supposed to be dead?"

"You're not dead," Wash said shortly. "You've just been out of it for five days."

"I could swear I was in Heaven... It was so bright and soft..."

"Well, it wasn't. Now, is there anything particularly wrong? Do I need to give you painkillers?"

"That would probably help. Also, I can't feel my hands."

"I was told you wouldn't feel your right hand, you took some heavy damage to that arm but it'll improve as you get better. And Caboose has been clinging tightly to your other hand since you were brought back from the hospital. I told him he was probably stopping the blood flow." Caboose frowned, looked downwards shamefully. "I'll get the painkillers the hospital gave me. Stay there, don't fall asleep again." Wash gestured at York. "Help me out with this, would you?"

"Alright."

On the way to the back of the infirmary, Wash muttered, "Can you not mention the pepper spray threats to anyone?"

"Don't worry, I won't. I think Sarge would approve, though. Blues and all."

"Perhaps, but I don't want it mentioned."

"No problem."

* * *

"I am very, very sorry."

Donut was trying his best not to nod off to sleep again. It wasn't too difficult. Everything hurt from the waist up. Especially the side of his head. Donut tried lifting his hand to check what was happening up there, but that hurt too much and his hand didn't want to move any more than an inch. He looked at Caboose, who was still looking ashamed.

"What are you sorry for?"

"I made your hand all non-feely with the hand-holding. I thought I was doing some good. But it was not good."

"Don't worry about it. It was nice. I think." Donut twitched his fingers a little. "Actually... I think it might make me feel better, right now."

Caboose reached out, touched his hand lightly again before twisting their fingers together gently. "I am still sorry... I was supposed to protect you. But all I did, even when I was here, was talk about how I was supposed to protect Church... And now Church is fine, but you are hurt... I messed up. I am really sorry. You can... get mad at me now. If you want."

"I'm not mad. Don't apologise. You were up here, you couldn't have done anything." Donut's rubbed his fingers softly against Caboose's own. It was the most he could really move that hand at the moment. "Were you talking to me, when I was out? Because... I think I kept hearing things. Something about steak and coins. Also, there was a lot about cats."

"Yeah... I talked a lot. I thought you might wake up if I talked to you. Did it work?"

"I don't know. But it made me feel better." Donut smiled a little. "I've been having nightmares for a while, but they didn't happen. Which for a five-day nap is pretty good. There were good dreams. I think the talking helped."

Caboose shifted, moved closer to Donut and hugged him again, this time much more carefully. It barely hurt that time. Caboose rested his forehead on Donut's for a brief moment, eyes shut, before pulling back and returning to his seat next to Donut's cot. "I am happy, then. Happy that you feel better, and that I was not... completely useless. Do you want me to stay here? I can go back to my cot if you want me to."

"If you can stay, that'd be really awesome."


	75. Chapter 70: The Red Prophet

**Chapter Seventy: Red Prophet**

Wash could not figure out how Doc put up with being the prison doctor for nearly ten years, when he was going mad after less than a week. As he tried to block out the nonsensical babble that was coming from the two idiots, most of his energy was going towards resisting the strong urge to just kill everything.

_No, that is not the way we do things. That's illegal. You kill everyone, you'll just end up wearing an orange jumpsuit yourself or back in the mental hospital. Although the hospital might be a relief compared to this._

When Wash was thinking of the mental hospital in a longing sense, that was a definite sign that his mood had sunk to rock bottom.

"And... and so then, Church said that Santa Claus does not exist. But I think he just does not like to visit prisons. People in prisons are always on the naughty list," Caboose told Donut, nodding.

"Yeah. Also, prisons... they don't have chimneys," Donut said. His voice sounded very sleepy. That was a good sign. Maybe the mind-numbing conversation would stop.

"Yes. Santa needs chimneys. Or at least a window. But we do not have many windows, and they all have bars on them. Also, they will not let us leave cookies out for him. I tried once, and I got yelled at."

_No homicidal rages. No homicidal rages. No homicidal rages._

There was hammering at the door.

"Hey, let us in. We just wanna check something, come on."

Wash sighed and placed his hands over his own ears. Which was probably somewhat childish, but Wash was just tired of people annoying him. "Go away!"

"Come on, don't be a douche."

Donut blinked, tried to sit up. Although he was now drugged up on painkillers, he still couldn't manage moving. "Grif? That you?"

"Donut? You're awake, then? Church told us you were probably dead."

_Seriously, what's with all these feelings for Donut?_

"Hey... Hey, Simmons. Nah, I'm not dead. I thought I was. But I'm not. At least I don't think I am. I might be. Maybe this is... like, that place where you're not in Hell, but you're not in Heaven either?"

Wash massaged his forehead for a moment. "You know what? I don't care anymore. Do what you want." He strode to the door, swung it open and ignored the two inmates who quickly slipped in. "There is no way I'm staying here."

_Screw this. I only had another two hours left before my shift as doctor ends, anyway. Maybe I can swap with someone._

* * *

"You look like shit," Grif observed.

"Well. That fits how I feel, I guess," Donut muttered. "Hey... Hey, so... So, uh... You know."

"No, we don't know. You gave us no context to guess as to what we're supposed to know," Simmons told him.

"You know how you guys are, like... tight? Tight-tight? Like... super-tight?"

"Stop saying tight."

"But it's a fun word. Tight, tight, tight. ...What was I saying? Oh, right... Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you?"

"Yeah... I feel left out of the... knowing-about-tightness group."

"Dude," Grif started. "Honestly. How did you not figure it out? We just assumed you knew. Even Caboose figured it out. Admittedly, that was because he walked in on us when we were..."

"They were making icky," Caboose interrupted.

"Pretty much everyone knows. Although most of the prison just thinks Simmons is my bitch."

"Like hell I am," Simmons muttered. "Seriously, can we talk about something else? Of all things you wanted to talk about, it was about that? Donut, what the hell?"

"But I was interested," Donut said, pouting. "And now I'm depressed because I got reminded about my broken gaydar. Aw."

"If your gaydar is the only thing broken, I'd say you got off pretty lucky."

* * *

"Some news for you, chap."

O'Malley glanced back at Wyoming. "Really? What, then?"

"You've been getting an awful lot of information for free as of late," Wyoming said cheerily. "I think some form of payment would be prudent."

O'Malley scowled, before handing Wyoming a packet of cigarettes. "Fine. Take it." It was no huge loss on O'Malley's part, as he had gotten the packet of cigarettes via trading his medication when South had tried to give out the pills. South hated trying to force O'Malley to take them, since it usually ended with O'Malley biting her fingers a lot. Which was unpleasant on both sides. It was fun to watch flow, but the coppery taste was disgusting. In any case, the end result was the same. South wasn't diligent enough and O'Malley was somewhat off his meds. Clearer thinking was the result, although it came with headaches and nausea that usually made him take them again. Once upon a time it also came with shaky hands, but his hands were always shaky nowadays, so that was irrelevant.

"Two pieces of news. First off... there is going to be a new doctor. A real one, I hear. Although I'm willing to bet the warden has chosen someone incompetent. Why waste funds on the health of criminals, after all. He'll be arriving tomorrow. From the clenching, I suspect you're not taking it well."

"What? Oh." O'Malley hadn't realised his fists were clenched until Wyoming pointed it out. They were clenched so tightly the knuckles had gone white. O'Malley scowled even more before unclenching his hands. That was Doc's position, goddammit. They couldn't just replace him, not if O'Malley had anything to do with it. "What's the second piece of news, then?"

"Young Franklin is awake. I'd say you have very little time before the guards throw you in solitary for that little beatdown."

"Hmph." O'Malley scratched his chin thoughtfully. He had told Doc that there would be consequences if he didn't return within the week. He intended to keep that promise, regardless of whether he was in solitary or not. "In that case... I have something to do."

"Don't let me keep you, then. Cheerio," Wyoming chuckled, before walking off to talk to some potential customers.

If O'Malley was going to get thrown in solitary, he obviously wouldn't be able to hurt any potential victims personally. He would need someone to do it for him. Wyoming was right out. He prefered not to get his hands dirty, and would not take such a risk. As for Lopez, O'Malley didn't trust him enough to do something like that. He'd already been reluctant when it came to the pastry. He would need time before he was ready to kill on a whim. No, neither of the usual minions were right. He'd need someone else...

O'Malley surveyed the yard quickly. His eyes skimmed over the sea of orange jumpsuits, looking for the person he needed. His target wasn't hard to spot. He was probably the smallest person inside the walls of this prison, not to mention he was generally shouting out vaguely biblical phrases at the red flag. O'Malley didn't know his name. Indeed, no-one seemed to. People just called him the Red Zealot.

At any rate, his name didn't matter. That wasn't what O'Malley needed. The traits that were most important to O'Malley was that the zealot was crazy, violent and easily brainwashed.

He made his way towards the zealot, edging through the crowd and trying to stay away from the guards. Just in case the pastry had already blabbed. The zealot, as per usual at that time of day, was gazing up at the flag and praying loudly.

"Hail, your Flappiness! We thank you for your protection over your devoted legion, and pray that you continue to watch over those of the most holy colour of red..."

O'Malley did his best not to laugh. It was easier than usual. The lack of pills made the laughing much easier to control. He walked forward until he was right behind the zealot, who was now waving around a cup of orange juice.

"And we dedicate this libation to your Flappiness..." The red zealot prepared to pour the cup of juice on the ground. "...So that when the time of judgment is near, you shall flap directions and guide us all to the promised land."

"That's a pathetic offering," O'Malley said, causing the zealot to jump and spill the orange juice everywhere.

"You dare to commit sacrilege towards our precious offering?" the Red Zealot yelled, at a pitch that O'Malley didn't think possible for any male. "Begone with you, before you suffer the crimson wrath of His Flappiness!"

O'Malley chuckled. "Me? Suffer the wrath? You are the one bringing inadequate offerings to the table." He waved his hand at the spilt orange juice. "For one... That's the wrong colour, you fool! I'm sure the flag doesn't appreciate your lazy attempts at offerings."

"Orange is a shade of red," the Red Zealot said defensively.

"Now, you better listen to this. I'm sure I can help you gain the flag's favour."

"Gain his favour?" The zealot looked hopeful for a moment, but then a look of suspicion crossed his face. "But you are not among the flag's chosen people. You are not one of the holy colour."

O'Malley pondered this for a moment. "Aren't I? Are you accusing me of being Blue?"

"You shall not speak of such devilry on holy ground!" the zealot screeched.

"Now, now, think about it for a moment." O'Malley reached up, tugged at a lock of his own red hair. "I, uh... bear the holy colour as part of my natural appearance. Not dyed or anything. Surely no Blue would be graced with that?"

The Red Zealot's eyes moved up to his hair. He sounded unsure. "Uh... Well... I suppose that wouldn't... make much sense. It would be against the natural order of the universe which His Flappiness created..."

"In fact, to have been born with the sacred colour... That would indicate that the flag... His Holy Flappiness... was sending you a sign. Right?"

"A sign... A sacred symbol to show me the path..." The suspicion and confusion was leaving the zealot's face, to be replaced with pure religious fanaticism. He immediately collapsed to his knees. "Why did I not see it? I was blind! Blind! Why did I not see the signs? The signs of the holy flag's prophet and speaker!"

O'Malley tried his best not to grin as the zealot continued to rant, now practically flat against the ground in worship. _That was... incredibly easy. Oh, I forgot how much I loved brainwashing..._

"Rise. I have orders for you. On behalf of the flag, of course."

"Of course! Tell me what I must do and it shall be carried out!" The Red Zealot climbed to his feet, bouncing back and forth on his feet with excitement.

"Well... You wish to gain the favour of the flag, do you not?"

"I wish nothing more than to bask in the the divine light of the flag's shiny pole."

"Indeed. The 'libations' you have been giving the flag are pathetic. What you truly need is a sacrifice."

"A... A sacrifice?"

"Yes... You see, the flag is rather infuriated by certain activities within the prison. In particular..." O'Malley tugged on the zealot's jacket. He had often seen the Red Zealot pilfering various pieces of clothing from where the pastry hung his laundry. "You stole this from one of the Reds, didn't you?"

The zealot stepped back, wrapping the jacket more securely around him. "I did not steal it. I simply borrowed it. His Flappiness does not like his followers to wear dirty laundry. It is an insult to everything he and his silky material stands for."

"That's not the problem here. So, the flag would clearly consider the one who cleans these jackets important, would he not? Being a red and one who washes cloth. He would be somewhat favoured, right?" The zealot nodded seriously. "Well... said person is currently in the infirmary because of a rather vicious attack. It's caused something of an... uh, imbalance in the universe's fabric. Too much favoured blood spilt. This must be balanced out."

"So, I must slaughter one of the Blues! Disembowel him and throw his innards upon the shiny pole so that the flag may bask in the sacrifice!"

"Not quite. The flag demands someone in particular as a sacrifice. Blue blood is not worthy of the holy flag, after all. No, the sacrifice must be someone neutral." O'Malley paused to think for a moment, before chuckling lightly. "Someone, perhaps, who has not been tainted by this prison. The new doctor who shall be arriving tomorrow, for instance. He would be an ideal sacrifice."

"A sacrifice of such pureness... Such an opportunity does not come often in purgatory," the zealot whispered. "Very well! The doctor shall be sacrificed so that we may bask in the divine light of the flag! All hail!"

"Excellent." O'Malley quickly added up the days in his head. "Wait two days. The... uh. The stars will be right, then. Yeah. Stars."

"Yes, O' great prophet! ...Uh. If it is not too great a request..." The Red Zealot's eyes were once again focused on O'Malley's hair, though this time with a sort of fascinated reverence. "May I touch the symbol of faith?"

_Is he asking to touch my hair? ...No. Just no._ And so O'Malley said, "Perhaps you can... prove yourself worthy to if you complete your duties. Perhaps."

"Yes, O' great prophet! I shall scrub at the essence of my being and soul until I am deemed worthy."

_Ergh. I'm starting to believe this fool is even crazier than I am. But it'll be worth stringing him along if everything goes to plan... Although I wish I could see the face of the new doctor myself as he's ripped apart. But I suppose one cannot have everything. No-one takes Doc's position without my say-so and if Doc is to return, then the position must be kept open. By any means necessary._


	76. Chapter 71: Thinkerbox

**A/N: In a response to a guest review/correction that I couldn't respond to... no, by pruno I do not mean moonshine. Pruno is a different liquor that, unlike moonshine, is almost prison-exclusive and it has nowhere near the alcohol content of moonshine, being somewhere between 2% and 14% alcohol. However, the 'white lightning' that they were drinking in a recent chapter is moonshine (although I actually didn't realise that until googling moonshine and realising white lightning was a name for it.)**

**If anyone is confused about an aspect of the story or feels I was wrong about something, feel free to ask and I'll answer it in the A/N. Or just correct it, if I'm actually wrong about it. Don't feel afraid to ask or anything. :3**

**Chapter Seventy-One: Thinkerbox**

"Uh, Wash... I don't think I can take over. I don't know anything about medicine. Or stitching. Or... okay, any of that stuff. Nothing medical." North scratched the back of his head and shrugged. "I'd be useless in the infirmary."

"You'd be better than me. You're good at caring for people."

"Caring does not a doctor make, Wash. Come on, I'll be completely useless in the infirmary."

"I honestly don't care at this point. Just go and keep watch," Wash said. "Everyone's stable, no-one will die unless you light the place on fire or shoot everyone in the back. Does shooting people in the back run in the family?"

"Leave South out of this," North said, his voice much colder than usual.

"Fine. I'll keep whatever I think about that..." Wash paused, although North could still hear him thinking a certain euphemism for a female dog, "...to myself. Now will you just take over the infirmary?"

"Okay, okay. Just stay here and take over my shift, alright?"

"Alright."

North hurried straight to the infirmary, absently wondering what was Wash's problem with South. He'd never even seen the two of them talk in the many years they'd both been working as guards, but... just some bad vibes there.

As North got closer to the infirmary, he heard a loud, girly shriek come from it.

"Oh, of course. 'Nothing bad will happen.' Dammit, Wash," he mumbled, before shoving open the door. "What's happening?"

Grif rolled his eyes. "No-one. Donut somehow forgot he was missing an ear until now. Aaand not he won't stop whining."

"My ear! How will I appreciate the full beauty of musical theater and showtunes now?!" Donut wailed.

"Oh, thank Christ in a sidecar. I thought it was something important."

"It is important! My life is over! This is even worse than having a broken gaydar!"

"I don't know... I think breaking a gaydar could be worse," Grif said. "It's not like we get to see any musical theater in prison. The gaydar would be more useful in here."

"That's... sort of true, I guess."

North flopped into the chair that Wash had been occupying half an hour ago. "Okay, so no-one needs anything? Because if anyone needs anything that's medical, I have no idea what to do." North looked at the four inmates and pointed at Grif and Simmons. "Also, you guys shouldn't be in here."

"We've been in here for, like, five minutes. Can't we stay just a little longer?" Simmons asked.

"I don't make the rules, Simmons. Seriously, I don't. That's the jurisdiction of the actual prison doctor. Can you please just go for now?"

Grif and Simmons glanced at each other, before Simmons sighed. "Alright, alright. We'll be back tomorrow."

"That's fine, we'll have a new doctor by then."

"Hold up, just let me ask something," Grif insisted. "Donut... Who the fuck did this to you?"

"I'm... I'm pretty sure it was O'Malley. Memory goes kinda off track, all I can really remember is floating and thinking Wash was an angel. But yeah, I... I remember O'Malley. He was definitely there. Him and Lopez."

"Who is Lopez?" Caboose asked.

"You know him. ...You kept calling him Mr. Spaniel."

"Mr. Spaniel? ...He hurt you?"

"Seriously? Lopez?" Grif asked. "He seemed pretty on the level, though he did have that Latino temper thing going on. But he really did that to you?"

"Uh... He held my hands behind my back. That's all I remember. Just a mass of... stuff after that." Donut shook his head. "I really don't want to think about it at the moment."

"Alright. Once I'm out of here, I'll tell the others. They'll get sent down to solitary, alright?" North said.

"That'll work."

* * *

On the way back to the cells, Grif said, "That was pretty fucked."

Simmons nodded. "Yeah, I know. Still, it's not like that O'Malley guy and Lopez will go unpunished."

"So what? Solitary. Big fucking whoop." Grif waved his hands. "That's not a punishment. We just spent a week in there, and we came out fine."

"Yeah. But we spent most of that... you know. They won't have that going on." Simmons paused. "I don't think they will, anyway. Who really knows. Anyway, that's not what I was referring to. Donut is annoying, sure..."

"And he's such a girl."

"True, but... Well, he's our friend, isn't he? And there's rules concerning friends and prison."

"Damn right there is. People don't fuck with other people's buddies. If they do, then we gotta fuck them up right back, or else they'll think they can get away with it." Grif crossed his arms. "Plus... Donut's such a girl."

"You said that already."

"I know. Just... made me think, was all. I mean..." Grif shrugged. "Just that... If someone had done something like that to Sister..."

"Then you probably would have killed them already."

"Already? Hell no. I'd make them suffer for a lot longer before killing them, for something like that." Grif scratched his chin. "For Donut, though? I won't go that far, don't want to ruin all chances of parole. But, well... I think punishment needs to happen. Proper punishment. An eye for an eye."

"Or an ear for an ear, in this case?" Simmons considered this. "Sounds fair. We'll need something sharp, though."

"We? That means you're helping out, then?"

"Oh, like you're surprised."

"Okay. Cool."

* * *

"Why'd they have to shave off all my hair? It's not like I needed brain surgery. Why'd they have to do that?" Donut muttered. "I want my hair back. And my ear. I don't like this."

"Sorry, Donut. But there was no chance at reattaching it, we don't know what happened to it," North said. He'd managed to locate a newspaper and was reading that, his face hidden by it. "O'Malley probably ate it or something."

"Ew!" Donut sighed. "Life is over. Can't appreciate showtunes. Not to mention being disfigured. Horribly disfigured. I'm going to have a lopsided head forever. I'll have to forever hide under blankets. I'd pull the blankets over my head now, but I still can't move."

"You do not need to cover your head in blankets," Caboose said firmly. "Hair grows back."

"Yeah, but ears don't."

"They don't? Oh."

Donut gazed at the ceiling. He didn't have much of a choice, what with the inability to move and all.

"It could be worse," Caboose said softly.

"I know, I know. I could have died, didn't die. But it's not comforting at the moment."

"No. Not like that. I meant... I meant that you could have lost other things." Caboose still had a firm grip on Donut's hand. He moved it upwards and placed it on his head, so that Donut's fingers were resting there. "Can you feel it?"

Donut had no idea what Caboose was talking about, but he pressed down very slightly with his fingers. Underneath Caboose's hair, he could feel areas where the skin felt scarred. His fingers curiously traced the scars for a moment, but Caboose looked very uncomfortable when he did so, so Donut quickly pulled his hand back.

"What happened?"

"I hit my head very hard once. It was... It was..." Caboose paused, mind ticking over, before he finally said, "It was two years before I got put in here. I was driving, and I hit a tree." Caboose moved Donut's hand back to the bed before letting go and prodding his own head. "I could not wake up for a while, and when I did I could not think properly. You lost an ear. And if it will not grow back, that is very bad. But it is just one ear. I mean, it is a flappy thing that lets you hear other things, and that is good. So not having it is bad. But you still have another one that will keep working, and you will still be able to hear with it as long as you never do anything silly like sticking a firecracker in there." Caboose scraped his foot across the floor moodily. "But I cannot find a spare thinkerbox."

Donut tried to think of something to say in reply to that. He'd never really considered the fact that Caboose had once been... well, normal. He'd just assumed Caboose was always a bit off in the head. He couldn't even picture Caboose with average intelligence. It was like trying to picture a hypoactive Grif, or Tucker as a complete prude. It just didn't process.

"I had a point somewhere... It was that things could be a lot worse. If O'Malley had hurt your thinkerbox... and he is very good at messing up people's thinkerboxes... then you would not be able to think properly either. Iif he did a really bad job on it... Then you might have ended up different, like I did. And then you might not have been Donut anymore. What I am trying to say is..." Caboose reached forward, poked Donut in the forehead. "You do look a little bit weird, but even if you look weird with no hair and a lopsided head... you are still Admiral Twinkie where it matters. Silly things like no hair cannot change that."

"I don't know whether to say that's sweet or cheesy," North said quietly from behind his newspaper.

"I kind of like that." Donut smiled slightly. "Yeah, still the same on the inside... I mean, I still like lace and lightish red."

"Pink?" North questioned.

"Nooo, I mean lightish red. By the way, if I ever stop liking lace, then something weird probably happened. If that happens, just... strangle me or something."

"I could not do that. You should ask Tucker. He is good at doing jerkface things," Caboose said.

"Alright." Donut turned his head as much as possible so he could look at Caboose. "For the record? I like you how you are right now. Even if you're not a great thinker."

Caboose looked rather startled. His only response was, "Oh. Okay?" When he returned to holding Donut's hand, he still looked very confused.


	77. Chapter 72: Loyalties

**Chapter Seventy-Two: Loyalties**

"How long have we got, do you think?"

"Well, North said he'd tell the other guards once he got off infirmary duty, so we got until either we're sent to bed or until a guard wanders into the infirmary," Simmons said. "But we got nothing sharp and we don't even know what O'Malley looks like."

"Yeah, that's a fucking roadblock. I hear you can tear off people's ears if you tug really hard, but I don't think we're strong enough. And I'm not biting it off. Too gross."

"Well, we know where Lopez is. Also, if Donut was right, Lopez only held his hands behind his back. So... if we leave out the ear-chopping, we won't need anything sharp. We'll just beat him up and save the good stuff for O'Malley."

"Hm. Yeah, I guess. Better threaten him into not saying it was us, too."

"Yeah, definitely." Simmons tapped his foot against the floor, arms crossed. "Lopez looks pretty strong, so... we need to get the jump on him."

"No problem. We'll just phase through the cell walls he's surrounded by," Grif said sarcastically. "Seriously, how the fuck are we supposed to get the jump on him?"

"Hm... well..." Simmons shrugged. "Don't know. He might be expecting us to try something. We asked him about Donut earlier, he's probably figured out we're friends with him. If we try to... you know, lead him off somewhere, then he'll probably be on his guard."

"So, we need someone who Lopez won't be expecting to care what happened to Donut?"

"Exactly."

* * *

"Why did you think I'd agree to that?"

Tucker was playing with his set of old, scratched dice. Grif and Simmons had dragged him away from Church (Church's only response to that had been an apathetic grunt) and had told him they needed his help.

"Uh. Well, had to try?" Grif said.

"You could have gone to pretty much anyone else. Why you annoying me about this?"

"Because you hate Donut. Lopez won't have any reason to suspect you're helping him, because there is no logical reason you would."

"Yeah, that's pretty true. But, seriously... why'd you think I would agree?"

"Uh. Uhhhh, well. ...You still owe me for the white lightning you drunk. I'll take away half the debt if you help us."

"Only half?"

"Hey, white lightning is expensive. And I need the money. You're lucky it's half," Grif complained.

"I'm not that fucking cheap, you know. I'm not my mother." Tucker tossed one of the dice in the air casually. "But I'll do it."

"Really?" Neither Grif nor Simmons had expected Tucker to agree so easily. Normally, a lot of haggling was required if anyone wanted Tucker's help with anything, unless that person was Church or someone with boobs. "Really, just like that?"

"Well. Might convince Lopez that he needs protection. Plus... I got reasons. But." Tucker turned to them. "How you going to stop him from squealing? Because if your answer is 'hope for the best' I ain't doing it."

"Of course it's not. We'll just threaten him out of it."

"Doesn't always work."

"None of the guards understand Spanish, anyway."

"That's true. But just in case..." Tucker pondered for a moment. "Would there be any reason you could think of for beating me up, too?"

"You kept hitting on Sister," Grif said immediately.

"A beating's a little intense for that, but alright. I'll lure out Lopez. You jump both of us. Maybe punch me once for good measure in front of him. I don't mind the face as long as it's not permanent, but leave the torso alone. It's way too painful there since the Miller incident. Cool with that?"

"I get to punch you in the face? I'm liking this plan already," Grif said.

"After that, focus on him. Drag us in the laundry room, and do what you want to him. Then just be all 'now we gotta punch Tucker some more, so get lost.' Or knock him unconscious, either way. We do all that, I can help you without any chance of being squealed on."

"Sweet."

"We need to do this right now, though," Simmons insisted. "Can you do that?"

"What do you take me for? Of course I can. Just hide inside the laundry room, wait for us to go by. I'll keep him distracted, try to keep his attention away from that area. Let me just make some excuses to Church, I'll drag Lopez by in... fifteen minutes at the longest." Tucker clapped his hands together. "Chop chop."

"Make it twenty, we need to grab something to use as rope," Simmons said. He and Grif quickly hurried off. "Didn't think he'd be so easy to convince."

"Are you complaining?"

"Not really. Just thinking. Tucker's a crafty asshole. Can't help but think he has some ulterior motive."

"As long as it doesn't affect us, I don't care."

* * *

"Hey, Lopez. Guess what I heard."

Lopez looked up. It was the scarred man. What was his name? Tucker? He talked a lot, that one. Always hanging around with the blackmail. Annoying, but that described the entire row.

"_What do you want?_"

"I heard that you—" Tucker prodded him cheerfully in the chest. "You kicked Donut's ass, didn't you?"

Lopez's insides squirmed nervously. He'd been trying to blank the incident out. Tried to remember that he had to do it, had to to keep O'Malley's protection from the big, blond man. But what O'Malley had done to the little fruit... And there was that disturbing grin that he'd been wearing as he hacked off Donut's ear with a screwdriver. A screwdriver was not something used for cutting. It had taken O'Malley a long time to remove the ear, and the screaming... the screaming had been horrific. Even though O'Malley had ordered Lopez to keep Donut quiet. Clasping a hand over his mouth only muffled the screams. It didn't silence them.

"_I did no such thing. I didn't harm the fruity one._" It was technically true.

"Alright, I'll admit I can't understand you. The only Spanish I know is some stuff I learnt to pick up girls. It gets them almost as much as French does. Both are very romantic languages. But in the case of Spanish, turned out I was just talking about grapefruit. Still got me laid, though."

"_Both you and whoever you seduced with lines about grapefruits are idiots._"

"But my point is... The damage you did to Donut was pretty damn impressive. Would have liked to be there, myself. Donut's a douchebag, and that beating was something he'd long since had coming." Tucker reached up, touched the scar on his face. "This is partly his fault, you know? He's done some nasty stuff in here. He's got Church giving him protection through blackmail, you know?"

"_Really? He looked rather innocent and useless._" Lopez's conscience stopped bugging him for a moment. He hadn't heard anything like that about the fruity one before.

"Anyway... Me and Church could use a guy like you. You've been hanging around with... what's his name... O'Malley, right?" Tucker tutted under his breath. "That's not a good idea. He's crazy."

"_I've noticed._"

"Now, Church has connections. He can get you protected much better than O'Malley can. Only people O'Malley can protect you from are his own followers. And Caboose, I guess, but only because Caboose is shit scared of him." Tucker grinned lazily. "But Church? You help us, he'll provide much better protection. From nearly everyone. O'Malley will just make people madder at you."

There seemed to be truth in that. Lopez couldn't imagine O'Malley being a very protective person. O'Malley was intimidating and insane. But that didn't equal protection. That just equaled danger.

"What do you say? Church is in the yard at the moment. If you want to discuss this further, I think that's the best place to do it."

Lopez considered Tucker an idiot, just like the others. But he made sense. And while Lopez had been determined early on not to accept any deals from Church, when the fruity one asked him... Well. Circumstances had changed.

"I will listen to what he has to say," Lopez said, standing. Tucker clearly didn't understand the words, but he understood the nod.

"Great. Man, you won't regret this. Seriously, I've been in here for ten years now... And considering the shit I do, I've been hurt a lot less than I should have. There was the Miller incident, of course, but that was solved when Caboose broke all his fingers. He won't be doing that shit again..."

Tucker steered Lopez towards the yard, one arm clasped around his shoulder, talking cheerfully. Lopez only half listened. Many of the stories Tucker told had been ones the fruity one told him. Horror stories about what had happened to inmates who didn't make the smart choice of accepting protection.

Tucker, arm still wrapped around Lopez, was explaining the finer details of one of the first riots he'd seen when something hit Lopez in the back of the head. Lopez heard Tucker yell at the same time, but he was too shaken by the blow. His vision swam for a moment, and he felt someone grab him from behind.

"Tie him... uh, them... up."

Lopez attempted to move, but someone had grabbed his arms, twisted them behind his back while he was dazed. He felt something being tied around his wrists, and then he was shoved into the laundry closet. He hadn't even realised they were passing by it. He recognised their attackers. Those two who were always bickering like old wives. The bigger one, Grif, had been the one who tied him up. Simmons had done the same to Tucker, who was whining pretty loudly.

"The hell you doing? What the fuck, you—" Tucker was silenced by Grif punching him in the face.

"Shut up, Tucker." Grif nodded his head at the corner of the closet, behind Lopez. "Just dump him over there until we're done with Lopez." Simmons nodded, pushing Tucker out of Lopez's sight. Lopez meant to look behind him, but Grif grabbed him, kept him facing away. Once Simmons had shoved Tucker into the corner (Lopez heard another thwacking noise and Tucker grunting in pain before swearing at Simmons) he moved to stand in front of Lopez, while Grif moved behind him, gripping his arms to keep him still, so he wouldn't struggle enough to rip the cloth they'd tied him up with.

"Lopez. We don't know each other well, do we?" Simmons crossed his arms, gazed at Lopez rather coolly. "Barely talked at all, right? You haven't been in here long enough to know about the kind of stuff you're dealing with."

"_I didn't hurt the fruity one,_" Lopez insisted. "_I didn't harm him at all._"

"No use making excuses to us. We've heard excuses before, do you think you're telling us anything new? Even if it's in Spanish? Listen. You hurt a friend of ours. And even you should know that's something you don't do in prison without consequences."

"Fuck yeah," Grif muttered. Lopez tried to jerk out of the larger man's grip, but the only response that got was for Grif to twist his arm more painfully. At the same time, Simmons pulled his fist back and hit Lopez hard. He was a lanky guy, but he'd put a lot into that punch. Lopez didn't make any noise of pain, but he sure felt it.

"You can understand English, can't you?" Simmons asked. Lopez glared back before nodding. "Then I'll just tell it to you simply. ...We're going to get you beaten hard enough to go to the infirmary. You can apologise to Donut yourself while you're up there. But." He smiled slightly. It was clearly meant to be intimidating. And it was working pretty well. "You don't listen to us, and we'll even the score properly. Donut lost an ear, we'll remove yours too if you don't listen. And in case you doubt that we have the guts... Why don't you ask the first man we got payback on? Unfortunately, you can't. Because he's six feet under. ...Of course, he wasn't dead when we buried him, so... through technicalities, suffocation killed him, not us.

And I don't mean we simply killed him. He might have still been alive when we buried him."

Lopez felt a shiver run through him. The look in Simmons' eyes... There was not an inkling of pity or guilt there. And Lopez didn't doubt at all that he was lacking the guts. They'd seemed like such idiots. Lopez had almost forgotten that they were in the murderer's row for a reason.

"The circumstances for keeping all your body parts are as followed." Simmons raised one finger. "First off. You do not touch Donut again. You do, and we finish what we're starting here. Secondly. You do not tell the guards what happened. I don't care what excuses you give for the beatings, or care what you tell them. But you do not mention us. At all."

"The third thing?" Grif spoke up from behind him. His voice was very close to Lopez's ear, and even though he was speaking quietly Lopez heard every word. No mercy in his voice either, although the tone was different. While Simmons' voice was icy, Grif's tone, despite the quietness, was rougher. More fiery. "Concerning that douchebag O'Malley. You don't tell him shit. You don't warn him at all. If he is in any way told about this, we're removing your ears and whatever other body parts you'll miss. I'm going to assume that, like most guys, that includes the downstairs region."

Lopez inwardly winced.

"Follow those three rules, and we let you out with no permanent damage. Probably. Just a severe beating. You'll leave and never mention this to anyone again," Simmons said. "Do you agree? Or will we have to rip your ears off right now?"

Lopez wasn't stupid. He nodded once.

"I'm going to assume you were agreeing with the conditions and not us ripping your ears off. Grif, swap. You're a harder hitter," Simmons said, gesturing. He and Grif swapped places, so that Simmons was the one holding his arms behind his back. As they swapped, Lopez saw them exchange a fist bump. And then Grif was standing in front of him, cracking his knuckles and wearing a gleeful smile.

"This is the kind of exercise I can actually get behind," Grif said cheerfully, before delivering a fist to Lopez's stomach.

Lopez did his best, through the entire beating, not to let out any noises of pain. There were a couple of times he couldn't help it, but nothing more than a small grunt or gasp escaped. Lopez would keep as much pride as possible intact.

Occasionally, Grif and Simmons would swap places again. Grif was definitely a harder hitter, but Simmons' blows were more calculated to hit places where he'd be feeling it for longer. Grif just punched wherever. Usually what was easier to reach. Lopez kept his eyes closed the entire time, but he could always tell who was hitting him.

The beating just went on and on. Had it felt like this for the fruity one, too? Had it hurt this much? More? Grif and Simmons weren't slicing at him with screwdrivers, at least...

After an eternity, there was a pause. Then one more punch to the face. Lopez could feel blood trickling out of his nose. It had to have been broken by at least the third time a fist had been smashed into it. When he opened his eyes, it was difficult to see. Simmons was fiddling with the cloth that was binding Lopez's arms. After a moment, he undid it.

"You can go now. Don't tell anyone we're here. Still need to take care of Tucker for hitting on Sister," Grif said, jabbing a thumb at the door. "Get going." They'd mostly beaten up the upper half of his body, so it was possible for Lopez to walk. He left, moving slowly and gingerly. Something had to be broken.

He made a note not to underestimate any of the idiots he was surrounded with. If they were all hiding ruthlessness like that, he didn't want to be taken by surprise by it again.

* * *

As soon as Lopez's footsteps receded, Tucker stood up. Simmons hadn't actually tied him up. He'd just kept his arms behind his back and out of Lopez's view to create the illusion that he had.

"Geez. You didn't have to punch that hard, Grif." Tucker rubbed the side of his face. "Stings like a bitch. Also, you didn't have to hit me once I was behind him. Could have just made the hitting noise."

"It was for realism," Grif insisted, rubbing his knuckles. "My hands hurt. Lopez has a pretty solid chest."

"I know, it was like punching a wall," Simmons said, examining the cloth they'd used. They'd shredded some of the clothes in the closet before Lopez had arrived for bindings. "No time to get O'Malley now, though. Don't even know what he looks like. We'll have to wait until he's out of solitary."

Tucker kept rubbing his face as Grif and Simmons talked. He glanced at the door which Lopez had left through. He had nothing against Lopez, personally. And he did feel a little guilty for his hand in the beating, even if he'd never actually hurt the guy. Of course, not agreeing with Grif and Simmons might have landed him on their bad side, too. But that wasn't the reason Tucker helped them out.

Tucker's gaze landed on the floor. There were old bloodstains there. Bloodstains that had probably belonged to Donut. North hadn't done a good job cleaning the floor.

Tucker still hated Donut. But if Church was giving Donut protection without being blackmailed, then the flaming weirdo clearly meant something to him. And whether Church was just banging him or whether it was something more... Tucker still had to question his taste, but if Donut meant something to Church, then Tucker would do his best to make sure no-one hurt him again. Because no-one fucked with Church's shit.


	78. Chapter 73: Choke

**Chapter Seventy-Three: Choke**

"And so she said, 'Mikey, do not come down the ladder. I have taken it away.'"

Donut had absolutely no clue what Caboose was now talking about. He may have drifted off a couple of times during the long stretch of rambling. Occasionally, he would hear North say something. Usually bringing the conversation towards something that made more sense. But then Caboose would manage to turn the conversation towards cats, usually from seeing the poster Doc had left.

He was nodding off to sleep again for perhaps the third time in the last half an hour (he kept getting woken up again by the chatter) when the door was pushed open, and Lopez stepped into the infirmary, moving slowly. Donut took in the heavily bleeding nose, the way Lopez was walking that was very similar to the time Grif had broken a rib and the other aspects of Lopez's appearance that shouted 'I just got my ass kicked really hard.'

North sighed and tossed aside his newspaper. "So much for 'nothing bad will happen.' What happened? Someone beat you up?"

"_No. I tripped and fell multiple times. Onto someone's fists,_" Lopez said flatly. He glanced at Donut, but then quickly fixed his gaze on the wall.

_Grif and Simmons. It had to be them that did it. Why else would anyone beat up Lopez? Man... I didn't think they were capable of beating up someone that badly. I mean, Grif is so lazy... and Simmons just isn't the physical type..._ Donut didn't quite know what to feel. He felt Caboose grip his hand tightly. His knuckles had gone white, and his expression... to say it was furious was an understatement, like saying that mass murder was 'a bit rude.'

"Uhhh. Uhh... um... okay, I don't know what to do. Is anything broken?" North asked. Lopez shrugged. "Okay, I know nothing about this. You're not going to pass out or die immediately?" Lopez shook his head. "Good. I'll go and find Wash. He knows more than I do, and it's his job anyway." He raised his eyebrow at Donut and Caboose. "Will you two behave while I'm gone?"

"Sure," Donut said. Caboose didn't say anything.

"Alright. Alright, uh... you can use this to stop your nose bleeding." North handed Lopez a box of tissues. "Not much, sorry. Either me or Wash will be back. No-one die while I'm gone."

North hurried out of the room. It was so quiet in the infirmary that all three of them could clearly hear North's footsteps moving away. Once the footsteps were gone, there was silence.

Caboose had let go of Donut's hand, completely focused on Lopez. Lopez was trying not to look at either of them, instead looking at the hanging kitty poster while trying to stifle the bleeding. Donut was staring back and forth between the two. The tension in the air was so thick he couldn't have cut it with a knife.

Then Caboose stood up, took three steps forwards until he was standing in front of Lopez and punched him square in the face.

"Caboose!" Donut yelled, but that was all he could manage before Lopez hit Caboose right back. There was another moment of silence, when the two glared daggers at each other, before they both leapt forward and started trying to beat the crap out of each other. "Caboose! Lopez! Quit it!"

"_He started it_," Lopez growled, while in the middle of trying to avoid Caboose's fists. Donut attempted to sit up, do something, anything besides uselessly lie there... But it hurt so much... As he struggled with that, Lopez ducked another one of Caboose's attacks and rammed him in the stomach. It didn't cause Caboose to do anything more than briefly stumble back before jumping right back at him and getting him in the stomach. Whatever Grif and Simmons had done to Lopez, they must have already hurt him there because Lopez doubled over, clutching his stomach. Within a few moments, Caboose had him on the ground and had smashed his face into the floor. Donut heard a pretty nasty crunching noise. If Lopez's nose hadn't been broken yet, it certainly was now.

"Caboose! Caboose, stop it!" Donut still couldn't sit up, he tried... he tried.. But every time he tried pain coursed through him. Whatever painkillers Wash had given him, either they didn't last long or they just didn't work very well. A yelp came from Caboose. Lopez had kicked him hard in the stomach, and the blow had been enough to affect him more this time. Lopez seemed to be quickly tiring, though. Even when Lopez twisted Caboose's arm and ripped at Caboose's stitches again, that only stopped Caboose for a few seconds. "Caboose! Lopez! Please, stop!"

Both of them just flat-out ignored him. Lopez, at least, probably had bigger things to worry about. Such as the hands which had just closed around his neck.

"You have been a bad man! Bad man!" Caboose yelled. "Bad, bad, not good, bad!" With every word, he shook Lopez angrily. Lopez did attempt to fight back, but he was in too much pain between this attack and what Grif and Simmons had done. The angry Spanish had quickly given way to choked rasps.

"Caboose!" Donut screamed. "Stop it!"

"No! He has not gone the right colour yet!"

"Stop it!"

"He hurt you. He was helping O'Malley. And he... Sheila..." Caboose tightened his grip, and a smile spread across his face. "He did bad things. Now it is his turn to fall over. It is only fair."

_That smile..._

Donut wanted to run and hide at that moment, because that smile was all too familiar. Although the last time he'd seen it, that smile had been on the face of O'Malley as he hacked off Donut's ear. What made Donut finally ignore the pain enough to push himself into a sitting position... Donut couldn't quite say what made him. The fear of that vicious smile? The realisation that Caboose wasn't just trying to hurt Lopez, but actually trying to kill him?

Or maybe it was realising that Caboose was actually enjoying it. Maybe that was what scared him so much.

Whatever it was, it was enough to get Donut to move. With a huge amount of effort, Donut shoved himself off the cot. That was all the movement he was really capable of, and he immediately toppled over. Although this did make Caboose look at him, he didn't let go of Lopez. Lopez was trying to pull Caboose's hands off his throat, but he couldn't. His face was steadily going purple.

"Major MacMuffin? You should not be moving. You might get hurt again," Caboose said. He had immediately switched his expression back to friendly and concerned, even though he was still trying to throttle Lopez to death. That casualness... casualness about doing something that gave Donut nightmares regularly... just made Donut snap.

"I. Said. STOP IT!" Donut shrieked. And then, with his working hand, he slapped Caboose as hard as he could.

Caboose did let go of Lopez's throat. But Donut was pretty sure Caboose only did out of shock. Lopez rolled away from them, clutching his throat wheezing and rasping for breath, his face purple. Caboose blinked a couple of times, touching the side of his face like he wasn't sure what had just happened. Then he stared at Donut.

"You hit me!"

"What was I supposed to do? You were going to kill him!"

"He deserves it! And I did not strangle him for nearly long enough. It takes much longer for someone to fall over that way!"

"No! No, he doesn't deserve it! No-one deserves that!"

"_Some people do,_" Lopez rasped, sitting up and massaging his throat.

"Shut up, Lopez! I'm mad at you, too!" Donut shouted. Then he turned back to Caboose. "No killing! Not unless you don't have a choice about it!"

Caboose was still staring at Donut. His expression was hostile.

"You... You are not my mother," Caboose muttered under his breath.

"Not your mother? Not your mother?! So what, you can kill people as long as your mother never says you can't?! So what if I'm not your mother! I'm the one who has been taking care of you every time you get your head stuck in your jacket and telling you stories and listening to you! I'm doing a fucking better job than her, when was the last time she visited you?!"

Caboose went white, and when he spoke his voice was shaking with rage.

"Stop. Talking. About. Mama."

A voice in the back of Donut's head told him to stop talking. That this could go nowhere good. But the rest of Donut's mind was too mad and frightened to listen.

"No, I won't! Because... Because, quite frankly, if she never taught you why it's bad to kill people and that there's a difference between murdering people and them 'tripping over'... If she never taught you any of that and then let you run off to kill four people and end up in here... well, she can't have been very good at taking care of you!"

Donut finished shouting, breathing heavily from both the shouting and the pain and stress of shoving himself off the cot. And then he realised what he'd done. He'd just shouted at Caboose about his mother while he was already in a homicidal rage.

_Oh god, he's going to kill me._

Donut shut his eyes, shivering. Expecting, at any moments, hands to close around his throat instead of Lopez. Five minutes ago he would never have considered even the idea that Caboose would do something like that, but... five minutes ago, Caboose had been chatting peacefully about ladders and cats. He hadn't been happily strangling people.

After a long stretch of time during which Donut was not throttled, he opened one eye cautiously. Caboose hadn't moved an inch. Like he just didn't know how to react. Eventually, he spoke.

"You should get back on the cot, Donut," he said frostily.

Donut tried to, but the pain was back, and it seemed to have gotten worse during his very brief trip off the cot. "I don't think I can."

Caboose picked him up off the ground, and unceremoniously dumped him back on the cot. It was painful, and Donut yelped, but Caboose just ignored him and walked back to his own cot. Once he was there, he just flopped onto the mattress and pulled the sheet over his head so he didn't have to look at Donut. Donut was tempted to do the same, but he also didn't want to move. He only shifted enough so that he wasn't lying on his bad hand before returning to staring at the ceiling, this time without the cheerful chatter filling in the silence.

Noise came from where Lopez was sitting, a quiet coughing. He was still rubbing his own throat. The purple in his face had started to fade, although he was clearly still having trouble getting enough air. He was watching Donut with a rather curious expression.

"What're you staring at?" Donut muttered.

"_That was a stupid thing to do. Insulting mothers is rude everywhere._"

"I know, I don't need you to tell me that."

"_I don't understand why you stopped him... But I should probably thank you for it._"

"Thanking me for... wait, I never gave you a toaster."

"_But regardless of whatever gratitude I feel, you are still an idiot whose Spanish skills are awful._"

* * *

"You know what? I'm glad Grif and Simmons aren't out to get us," Tucker said conversationally, checking his face in the bathroom mirrors, looking to see if he was bruised at all. "The punches were painful enough while I was helping them, I'd hate to feel them while they're serious. Never seen them seriously pissed before, the worst I ever got was when Grif broke my finger for saying stuff about his sister. And Grif says that was more of a 'spur-the-moment' kind of thing."

"I'm pretty sure that most of the prison has wanted to punch you at some point, I wouldn't worry about them," Church muttered. Arms crossed, waiting for Tucker to finish. Tucker was such a vain dumbass at times. "Hell, I know I want to punch you on a day-by-day basis."

"Yeah, I know, I know."

"Why did you even agree to help them out, anyway?"

There was a few moments of pause. Then Tucker turned around, grinned at him for a moment. "Usual stuff. I'll hold the favour over their heads and eventually demand pruno or porn magazines or something in exchange. I'm just waiting until the time's right. Usual con stuff, you know?"

"I don't think most con artists dedicate their efforts to acquiring pornography, of all things."

"True, but hey. What is life without the little pleasures? Alcohol, sex, weird Hungarian pornography... Might not be as good stuff as on the outside, but if I can get it in here I'm sure gonna. I'm pretty sure being able to have stuff like that is an American right or some shit. Know what I'm saying?" Tucker stared at Church for a moment. "Church? You even listening?"

Church snapped out of the daydream that had occurred in the middle of Tucker's explanation about 'the little pleasures.' "What? I don't have time to listen to you, Tucker. Most of the stuff you say is garbage anyway."

Tucker stuck out his tongue. "You're just a wet blanket. Need to loosen up. Find some alcohol, some of whatever food you ate on the outside, go grab Donut, just go nuts."

"I'm not fucking Donut!"

"Sure, you say that. Why you being so defensive, I told you I don't care. You need to get laid more often, anyway. Maybe it'll get rid of the stick up your ass."

_Yeah, I know you don't care. Which is good, probably a lot less complicated and pissy that way. If you insist on believing that fucking stupid... _

"I hate you so much."

"I know. You hate everyone and everything."

"Well... I especially hate you."

* * *

"North... How could you mess up that much? You're normally the competent twin," Wash said dryly.

"They were fine when I left! I don't know how Donut moved or Caboose tore his stitches... guys, did you try to violate my no-dying rule? Not cool."

"We did not die," Caboose said. Very quietly, he muttered, "Mr. Spaniel was the one who was supposed to break that rule."

"Who?"

"Nothing."

Wash was staring down Lopez, looking thoughtful. After a few minutes of staring, he said, "He's... definitely been beaten up."

"Oh no, really?" North muttered. "I could never have guessed."

"I don't know much about medicine, alright? I'd... guess there's at least one broken rib there, and the nose is definitely broken... Of course, the test for broken ribs consists mostly of poking him there and seeing if he complains," Wash explained dryly. "The nose is obvious, though. I don't think he's going to die immediately, let's just leave it to the new doctor."

"This entire prison is incompetent," Lopez muttered.

"There is way too many people getting beaten up lately," North sighed. "Oh, by the way... Donut says it was O'Malley and Lopez who beat him up. You should probably chuck them in solitary."

Wash waved his hand at Lopez. "I can't keep him in both solitary and the infirmary."

"That's Lopez? He got his ass kicked that quickly? ...This place works fast."


	79. Chapter 74: Blue Vein Cheese

**Chapter Seventy-Four: Blue Vein Cheese**

When Donut woke up the next morning, he still ached like mad. His arm was hurting worse than ever. But overall, the pain wasn't quite so bad. It was enough to make him want to go back to sleep again so he could try and ignore it, though.

Now that he was awake, however, he couldn't go to sleep again. He opened his eyes, looked around. Caboose and Lopez were sitting on cots that were at opposite ends of the room. But they were both watching each other quite attentively.

Lopez looked mildly disgruntled and he had his arms crossed. His face was pretty battered and his neck was just one big mass of dark bruising. Caboose looked more blank, and he had his hands clasped together in his lap. Neither of them moved, but Donut could swear they were communicating threats entirely with their eyes. It was actually oddly impressive.

There was some shuffling noises coming from the back of the infirmary. There was a man there that Donut didn't recognise. He was just looking through the cabinets, occasionally writing something down on a notepad he was carrying. Eventually he turned around, caught Donut watching him.

"You're awake. Good. I need to ask you some questions. Mostly about how much pain you're in. How much pain are you in, exactly?" he asked quickly. He hurried over to Donut, still holding onto the notepad.

"Uh. A lot."

"Can you be more specific?"

"I can't move without everything above the waist hurting. That's about as specific as I can get. Also, my bad arm really hurts. I kinda ended up lying on it on accident for a little while yesterday. And I've got a broken gaydar, if there's any way you can fix that..."

"Uh. A gaydar isn't something that can be fixed by modern medicine," the man said, thrown off for just a moment. Then he returned to staring down at his notepad. "Okay, I was just checking. The details are on your chart, I just thought I better ask. A lot of these charts aren't written out properly, some of them are very vague. But yours seems to line up with what you just said."

"Okay, uh... guy." Donut squinted up at him. "Uh. Who are you?"

"Walter Henderson. Sarge hired me to be a doctor here. Good thing, too. I don't know who was working up here earlier, but I looked through the records... I'm pretty sure that many patients dying is some sort of record. Or at least killing that many patients and not getting fired or arrested."

"Yeah... Doc was pretty good at not doing his job properly."

"So I can tell. And whoever has been watching the infirmary lately... who did the stitches? They were nowhere near an acceptable standard."

"Well... a guard did them..."

"Ah. That explains it. How this prison is still standing, I have no idea... You don't even have enough supplies for half the average prison. Although since so many seem to die inside this prison, maybe it doesn't particularly matter. Numbers would have been down enough for these supplies to do within a few more months."

* * *

The Red Zealot would normally spend the day associating with the other followers of the Flag, and trying to convert other inmates to their way of life. This was often unsuccessful. It had gotten them attacked on more than one occasion. Although that usually ended up worse for whoever attacked him and his Red brothers. No-one could stand against their combined might.

But that day, the zealot had retired to his cell. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharpening the shiv he had made. His Holy Flappiness was deserving of a magnificent weapon. A weapon made by his most dedicated follower's own hands. The zealot had sharpened it to such an insane degree that it was as sharp as a knife. He had spent the time since the prophet had suggested the idea of a sacrifice working on it. A lesser mortal would have gotten bored and given up the task, but the Red Zealot was still fully focused on his mission, only stopping to eat and sleep. And that only so he could continue to have the energy to do so.

After so many hours of crafting and sharpening, he held it up to the dim lights that the cell blocks were lit with. A perfect weapon. The most perfect he could manage in this purgatory. The Flag deserved no worse than that. A smile crossed the zealot's face before he carefully wrapped up the shiv up in his bedsheet and placed it inside his footlocker before hurrying outside to pray to the Flag.

He spent a while just gazing with wonder at it's shiny pole and silky fabric, before clasping hands together and kneeling.

"Oh wondrous Flag. Please grant me your blessings, so that I may perform the sacrifice and bask in the glory of all that which is red and most holy," the Red Zealot said, head bowed in prayer. "In your name I shall do this, so that one day I may overcome my inferiority to all things of flapping fabric and join you and all your worthy followers in the next life, while those who are unworthy burn in blue flames!"

He was sure he could feel the Flag smiling down on him. Of course, the Flag lacked the necessary appendages to smile, as they were unnecessary for a being of such power as His Holy Flappiness. But he could feel it. Turning away, he snapped his fingers.

"Followers of the flag, unto me! Assemble!"

Almost immediately, the rest of the Flag's followers assembled in front of him. They were always nearby. The Red Zealot was their leader, second only to the Flag and any prophets that made themselves known. All the zealot had to do was call out, and they would appear immediately in most circumstances.

"Followers! The day of the sacrifice draws near! Let us embark on a day-long vigil before the holy task is carried out! Return to your cells and pray, for tomorrow blood shall spill in the name of His Holy Flappiness!"

Cheers went up among the followers. They were ignored by the other inmates, the unenlightened ones. The Red Zealot gazed out over the crowd, looking for the sacred symbol of faith that would signal where the prophet was. He was not among the crowds. Perhaps he had been locked in solitary. Solitary was like a test that those who guarded purgatory put them through, and being able to survive it without insanity proved that one was strong in spirit. If the prophet was there, then he would be fine. His Holy Flappiness would not have chosen someone as the prophet if he was weak of mind.

* * *

"I like the new doctor," Sarge said, as he checked his sandwiches for mayonnaise. He had gone out drinking the night before with some of the other guards, and the wife had gotten mad at him. He was on the lookout for her usual revenge schemes. There was no mayonnaise in his sandwiches, although there seemed to be a strange cheese on them. Ah, unusual and possibly poisonous ingredients, the bane of a good lunch.

"Is that so?" Flowers was still eating the same organic bread that he always did. He was a disgrace. Yet he always managed to work his way into Sarge's office for lunch. And most of the other parts of the day. When was the last time Flowers did any actual guarding? Not while Sarge was around. Of course, Sarge spent most of his time locked up in his office. Both because of paperwork and phone calls, and because he liked to be close to where he kept his shotgun. Just in case of zombie apocalypse or a spontaneous war. In both cases, Sarge was ready to kick ass.

"Yep. He's got a proper manner about him. Formal. No backtalk. I would have preferred to get someone a little more incompetent, but what can you do? Turns out people with as many kills as Doc are hard to come by. Pity that. Maybe I'll be lucky, and he'll at least kill someone on accident. Preferably Grif." Sarge stuck his finger in the strange cheese on his sandwiches and tasted it warily. "Blue vein cheese. That crafty old bag."

Flowers chuckled. "Your wife can be very vindictive at times. Last night was terrifying." Sarge's wife had burst into the bar in the middle of the eighth round of drinks. The memories were hazy, but Sarge recalled that he had been standing on a table singing a rather rowdy song at the time and Flowers had somehow acquired a cowboy hat and had gone into a drunken explanation of why cowboys could beat ninjas in a fight, mostly basing the argument on how ninjas didn't work as a team. Plus, cowboys had guns. The anger from his wife towards Sarge had been terrifying, but she had also torn Flowers a new one for 'badly influencing her husband.' Although Sarge had been the one who dragged Flowers out with the rest of them. During work hours he was a dirty Blue, sure. But outside of the prison he was just Flowers, and that made it okay to go drinking with him.

"Terrifying, indeed. You weren't at home when she brought out the broom." Sarge shuddered, before pushing his sandwiches away from him. "Hey, dirtbag."

"Yes?"

"How old are you? Fifty?"

"Fifty-two."

"Why the hell haven't you settled down with a wife and kids? You seem like the type to have one of them cheerful typical families. Two point four kids and all that. And you always going on about teams and making the men call you daddy. Where's your family?"

Flowers smiled. "I have all the friendships I need among the men. I spend my life in this prison; why not just make my family here?"

"Because this prison is filled with dirtbag criminals! That don't constitute a family. If my son decided to become a no-good murderer, he would be scolded like there was no tomorrow. ...Unless it was the kind of murder sanctified by the army. Then it'd be fine."

"The prisoners are still people. And I'm sure having a father figure wouldn't hurt them any."

"You got a very strange idea of what family is, girlylocks."

"Do I? You married a swamp monster, didn't you?"

"Hey, don't bring that up again. She hears that again and she'll stop washing my clothes, and I can't go to Donut for that at the moment."

* * *

"I still say you should dance with joy in a literal way."

"No."

York shrugged. "Okay, okay. But it would have been awesome."

"Maybe for you. But I'm not about to ruin all the work I put into intimidating the inmates by breaking out into a dance routine," Wash said dryly. "Dance routines aren't exactly intimidating."

"I'm sure they can be. Aren't there movies that have wars mixed with dancing? I'm not into musicals, but I saw one with Carolina once. They were doing this finger snap thing, I think it was supposed to be intimidating."

"Yes, but what counts as intimidating changes when someone lives inside a musical. It doesn't count."

"Stop poking holes in my theories, I'm trying to get you to dance! Or do something happy, at least," York grumbled. "You barely even smile."

Wash's response to this was pretty much a grunt.

"Okay, I give up." York went back to resting against the wall, keeping a watch over the yard for trouble. "Speaking of Carolina... I was going to visit her today, you know? Need to make sure there's no weeds growing around her headstone again. I don't know who is the caretaker there, but they do a really bad job... You think maybe you could come and help me tidy up?"

Wash had his arms crossed, gazing into the distance for a few moments. Then he nodded. "Sure. I'll help."

"Thanks, I appreciate it. I think Carolina would, too."

"Yeah..."


	80. Chapter 75: Unicorns

**Chapter Seventy-Five: Unicorns**

"Caboose? Caboose?"

Donut attempted to get a hold of Caboose's attention, but Caboose was stubbornly staring at the wall. He would have still been staring ominously at Lopez, but he'd been let out of the infirmary once Walter determined that he'd just been 'really, really battered' and that there was nothing more the infirmary could do beyond bandaging him and ordering him to stay off laundry duty for the next month due to the broken rib. He hadn't been sent to solitary even though North knew he had a part in Donut being beaten up. Maybe North figured being beaten up that badly was punishment enough.

At the present, Walter was preparing to re-do Caboose's stitches because he had deemed the ones Wash had done 'unprofessional.'

"It's really no wonder they kept tearing," Walter murmured, rummaging through the various cabinets. He was still unsure of what pieces of equipment were in each, and so it kept taking him a while to find things he was looking for. "Where did he put the needles?"

"Caboose? Come on, talk to me! I'm bored and I like listening to you ramble! We can talk about unicorns..."

"I am sorry, I could not hear what you were saying over the sound of you being a jerk," Caboose muttered.

"Over the sound of me being a jerk? What does that sound like?"

"Like... jerkishness."

"Okay, I shouldn't have insulted your mother. But... Well... What did she teach you if she didn't teach you not to kill things?"

Caboose scowled and kept staring at the wall. "Stop talking. I do not want to listen to you."

"Come on, not this again. Last time we got into a fight we didn't talk for, like, two months. It was crappy. I mean, two months of no talking? And it's not the same hanging around with Grif and Simmons. They're fine, but they're so stuck together. I end up feeling like a third wheel." Donut sighed. "Can't believe I didn't see it... Stupid gaydar. Anyway... Don't you get the same thing with Church and Tucker? They're not as insanely stuck together as Grif and Simmons, but still..."

"No. Me and Church are bestest friends," Caboose said firmly.

_Why is Church so fucking great? Every time Church talks to him it's insults, insults and more insults. Why is Church his supposed 'best friend?' I'm the one always talking to him and visiting him in the infirmary and actually being nice to him._ Normally Donut didn't mind, but at the moment... he just felt very, very bitter. Maybe because if Church ever insulted Caboose's mother, Caboose would probably forgive him instantly. Donut just didn't understand it, and he hated the fact that he was probably the only person who didn't insult Caboose on a regular basis, yet these stupid fights kept happening.

Donut just barely stopped himself from snapping again. At least this time he wasn't also trying to stop Caboose from strangling someone. Instead he just took a few deep breaths before continuing. "Yeah, but still... The last fight we had was crappy, wasn't it?"

Caboose didn't say anything, but he did nod slightly.

"I don't want that to happen again... I mean, stuff that is crappy sucks."

"That is true."

"So can you start speaking to me again? Please? You gotta admit, this isn't as serious as what the last fight was about..."

"You said bad things about Mama. That is... very bad."

"It's not as bad, though."

"But it is still very bad. You would not like it if I said mean things about your mama."

"Which one? It's true, I'd be mad about either. I just like to have context."

Caboose wrinkled his nose, thinking. "Erm... Which one would make you madder?"

"Okay, I have a bad feeling that if we keep this up it'll turn into a 'yo momma' contest. Can we just forget that the fight yesterday never happened?"

"I am a good pretender."

"Yes, you are. So, can we just forget about it?"

Caboose continued to stare at the wall. Eventually, Donut also returned to staring at the ceiling, assuming the silence meant 'hell no.' Until, eventually...

"One of my sisters said that unicorns only like girls. Is that true?"

"What?"

"You said we could talk about unicorns."

"Ah. Right. ...I thought unicorns liked people who hadn't banged anyone."

"Banged?"

"Uh. People who haven't done... special cuddling? Or wrestling? Making icky? Doing the horizontal shoe shuffle?"

"Oh, that."

* * *

In an attempt to stave off boredom, Simmons had gone to the library and found a book on games that didn't require anything to play. Of course, the majority of them were for children, not to mention incredibly boring. It listed I Spy. I-Freaking-Spy. They had attempted that, but seeing as they were in the cells objects to 'spy' were very limited. So Simmons had gone back to flicking through the book, trying to find something which was at least slightly amusing.

"You aren't gonna find anything in that. It's a book of children's games," Grif told him, from his position on his cot. Simmons was sitting on the floor, back against the wall.

"There's got to be something. I'm sick of card games."

"Yeah, me too. But we can find something to do until I can make some more pruno, right?"

"I dunno, maybe you should stop doing that. You're just fucking up your chance at parole. Especially with the fist fight."

"Yeah, but... Time passes quicker that way, so even if I'm in here for less time without drinking, it'll feel like longer. Y'know?"

"But it won't be longer."

"Yes, but it'll feel like it." Grif stretched his arms a little before rolling over. Then he lifted his head a little. "Lopez is back."

"Already?" Simmons also looked up. "Maybe we didn't hit him enough. I thought he'd be in there for at least a couple of days."

"Eh. He still looks like crap." Grif watched Lopez edge towards his cell. "I think his rib is broken, that's how I was walking when it happened during that riot. Nice bruising around the left side. It's actually a good colour."

"Stop admiring the beatings, it's creepy."

"But I'm bored, I gotta look at something. If we punch the crap outta someone, we might as well enjoy how it looks afterwards. Not doing that is like... like if that guy who painted the Mona Lisa not looking at it once he was done. Only this is more violent. And less boring."

Simmons rolled his eyes. "So beating up someone is on par with one of the most famous pieces of art of all time?"

"Okay, when you phrase it like that it does sound creepy."

* * *

"Those stitches should actually hold. Provided you don't do anything too strenuous." Walter waved his hand at the door. "You can go."

"I can go? Really?" Caboose looked at the door uncertainly. "...Mr. Washingtub said I had to stay here."

"I'd prefer to keep as many cots open as possible, in case of more serious injuries. I've seen the paperwork. Apparently serious injuries are very common."

"They totally are," Donut agreed. "This place is crazy."

"Hm. I'm starting to miss the clinic. Although that did seem to be frequented by weird people, too..." Walter shrugged. "Anyway, I said you go. Why aren't you leaving?"

"I am leaving. I was just confused at first," Caboose muttered.

"Caboose, wait!" Donut said quickly. "Promise me you won't try to hurt Lopez again, okay? It's not nice, and it'll get you in trouble."

"In trouble? But I am already in here forever," Caboose said, looking confused.

"But you don't want to go to solitary or anything, right? Or put on sedatives! I hear those are crappy."

"They are. They make me dribble."

"So, don't do anything. Okay?"

"But... He hurt you."

"And I'm angry about that, sure. But two wrongs don't make a right."

"I think three wrongs do. And because he was already hurt by people, that makes two wrongs. So me hurting him will make things good again."

"That makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"I'm not sure what you're both talking about, but it sounds unpleasant," Walter muttered. "And the only sedatives in this cabinet aren't even legal. These ones were banned years ago... and I'm pretty sure these other ones are elephant tranquilizers."

"Elephant tranquilizers? Yikes. ...And now I lost my train of thought," Donut muttered. "Right. Caboose, just promise me you won't hurt Lopez. Or anyone, really. Just don't, alright?"

Caboose crossed his arms, looking grumpy again. But he nodded. "Okay. I will not hurt Lopez right now. But only because you said so."

"Good. Because you were really scary yesterday."

"Scary?"

"Yeah. The crazy smile..."

"I did not know it looked crazy."

"It looked very crazy! You looked like O'Malley! It was that kind of smile!"

"No, it was not."

"Trust me. Try it in the mirror sometime."

* * *

That night, bad dreams kept annoying Church. Why they'd chosen that day to show up, Church didn't know. It wasn't like anything out of the ordinary had happened. He'd played cards with Tucker, mostly. Caboose had been let out the infirmary, had hugged him very tightly and said something about there being a new doctor who said that the infirmary had an elephant or something stupid like that. But nothing particularly weird.

Why were the dreams back, then? Not so much dreams as just the one dream. The same dream as five years ago, when Tucker had been hospitalized.

Same darkness. Same pitch-black darkness. The only light being where he and Tucker were standing.

And Tucker had looked exactly the same. Wearing the hospital gown and oxygen mask in place of his usual orange jumpsuit and shit-eating grin. And just like before, Tucker had been blue and cold. His eyes had been dead and empty. He'd looked all too much like a walking corpse.

Church knew this dream. Even as it happened, even as Church stood in the darkness and stared at Tucker, who stared right back with those dead eyes... Church knew this had happened before, even if at that moment he wasn't sure it was a dream. The fear was there... The fear was quite real. The fear that Tucker was going to walk away and never come back.

But the dream went in a different direction at that point. Tucker walked towards him. The footsteps dragged. Bare feet scraping along surface that Church couldn't see. Tucker may have been walking towards him instead of away... the opposite of what Church had been terrified of... and yet, despite that Church was still terrified.

"No, no, no... Stay back," he found himself saying. Trying to keep this cold version of Tucker away from him, but his legs wouldn't move. They just stopped working, and Church collapsed on that invisible surface. Tucker knelt down in front of him, still staring. Then he removed his oxygen mask.

He couldn't do that. Tucker needed that mask, didn't he? Church was sure he did, even though that incident had been years ago, he needed that mask, he needed it... Then Tucker rested a hand on his face. That hand was freezing, and it made Church shiver.

"You need the mask," Church said dumbly.

"Yeah." Tucker's voice was just as flat and lifeless as he looked. "But you need it more."

Church didn't understand, and he was about to tell Tucker that it was completely stupid. Why would he need an oxygen mask, he didn't need it, he didn't. But he couldn't say anything because Tucker... cold, dead Tucker... had covered Church's mouth with his own. And it was cold, it was like kissing ice and Church wanted to move away but he couldn't. He had no control, in that way that only ever happened in dreams, where things just happened and you didn't have a choice...

Then Tucker pulled away, fixed the oxygen mask to Church's face before climbing to his feet and walking away, back into the pitch black darkness. And this time around, there was no-one stopping Church from following him... and despite that, he couldn't move. He could only stretch out his arm and tell Tucker not to leave, that it was stupid, that he didn't need an oxygen mask and please, Tucker, don't leave—

Church woke up with his arm stretched in front of him. It took him a moment to realise he was crying. He scrubbed at his eyes angrily. Crying over a stupid dream... He was a fucking wuss...

He turned over in his cot. He could hear Tucker from his cell, just breathing in and out quietly in his sleep. He was sleeping on his back. Church could tell, because Tucker's breaths always sounded a bit painful if he had rolled over onto his chest. Church then realised that knowing how his friend was sleeping from how his breath sounded was incredibly creepy. In any case, Tucker was fine. Of course he was. It was just a stupid dream.

So... What the hell was Church crying over?


	81. Flashback: Chapter Five

**A/N: Sorry for how long this took. As well as it being a difficult chapter to edit (due to the amount of alterations I had to make to Sigma and Theta in particular) I had to stop for a while in order to do a surprise essay for my university course. I'll try to be more prompt after this, although I'm still searching for an internship so I can't promise anything.**

**Flashback – Part Five**

As it turned out, being thrown into life-threatening situations was practically a weekly thing where Delta was concerned. Sure, there were non-dangerous tasks mixed in with this. Like delivering slightly suspicious packages to a bar that Church suspected engaged in illegal cockfighting, judging by the amount of feathers in weird places. But then there were the other ones that involved a fuckton of bullets.

When it came to the jobs that involved being shot at, Church was rarely by himself. Sigma was there more often than not. Sometimes Church felt like that was a good thing. Sigma knew more than he did, and it was good to have someone who actually knew how to fire a gun. They'd given Church a gun, but he was bad with it. On the other hand, spending hours upon hours with Sigma was not the way that Church really wanted to spend his time.

Of course, Church would prefer to be doing a lot more things with his time, like taking care of Eddie and not living in fear of being shot. But not all wishes can come true.

"When are they going to get here?" Church grumbled, slumped in the passenger seat of the van. Today it wasn't a lethal job, or at least it wasn't supposed to be. Just some kind of deal, where they traded a bag of something for a bag of something else. Church didn't know the details. He was just there for 'muscle.' What a joke.

"Soon." Sigma, as always, was much more at ease. He was sketching in a pad of paper that he often brought along to any job that required a lot of waiting. At the present, he was doodling the rough outline of a man with his hands behind his back.

"So, we're not killing anyone today, right?"

"Provided that this deal goes the way it should, yes. If it doesn't, then we shoot them."

"Hooray," Church muttered.

"Does it really matter to you? I've been watching." Sigma glanced sideways at him. "You hold back. When we're doing missions together, I'm always the one actually shooting them. Even that time when you were cornered."

"Hey, that time I was actually trying," Church said defensively. It was true. A couple of jobs ago, he'd been cornered by one of the smugglers they were supposed to be taking down. First time Church had actually tried using a gun properly. Entire clip of bullets. Point blank range. Not one of them hit.

"So you admit you weren't trying beforehand."

"Was too."

"No need to get defensive, Leonard. I won't tell Delta as long as it doesn't become problematic. But you'll have to, eventually. I don't understand why it's difficult. You've done it before."

"Yeah, because I had to." If it didn't feel absolutely necessary, Church just couldn't pull the trigger. He hadn't been able to shoot until the guy had him cornered. He had only been able to kill Jimmy because he was going to die anyway. He'd only been able to slash his father's throat because he had to stop him from harming Eddie. But when it was just random people who Delta sent them after, Church couldn't do it until he was actually in danger. "I don't like killing random people."

"You don't have to like it. You just have to do it." Sigma shrugged. "It's just part of the job."

"Yeah, I know." Under his breath, Church muttered, "Fucking Delta."

"Don't be too hard on him."

"Don't be too hard on him? From what I hear, he's supposed to be some sort of criminal mastermind or some shit. He's fucking nineteen! Nineteen-year-olds should not be fucking criminal masterminds!"

Sigma smiled slightly. "Yeah, he gets that reaction. But it's an odd situation. Started as a family business. His father was always insistent that Delta and Theta be involved in it. Taught them how to hack. How to shoot. About all the links to the criminal world that he knew of."

"Well. That's kinda fucked up."

"Didn't say it was normal." Sigma flipped a page of his sketchbook. "But neither Delta nor Theta ever really was. I'm sure you've noticed."

"You mean the fact that Delta's basically a robot and Theta acts like a little kid?"

"Precisely. They're both phenomenally bright, of course. But odd. Don't ask me for specifics. Their father never tried getting them diagnosed." Sigma wrinkled his nose slightly. He was sketching a picture of four people. As he added in details, Church recognised it as the family he'd seen in photos at Delta's home. Father, mother, Delta, Theta. "He raised them to be even stranger. He treated them like soldiers rather than children. Their mother never protested outwardly. I think she was scared to say anything. Sometimes she would ask me to babysit them and take them somewhere that children would enjoy, and not to tell their father."

Sigma sketched in Delta's features. "Once I took them to a theme park. Delta spent the entire time analyzing the speed and stability of rides, and all the good hiding places and escape routes." He sketched in Theta's features. "Theta acted like a normal child most of the time, but he developed an unhealthy fixation on any target-shooting games and tried to tell the people running them in detail about which models of rifles would be much steadier and effective against short-range targets. ...They were ten and six at the time."

"That's just... weird." Church pushed his car seat back a little so he could prop his feet up. "So, why the fuck's Delta running all this instead of his old man?"

Sigma stayed quiet for so long afterwards that Church thought he was ignoring the question. It was only a couple of minutes later, while Church was absently picking at his fingernails that Sigma replied, "That would be because of the Director."

"Who the fuck's the Director, anyway?"

"Kingpin of a very large criminal organization that sprawls out across the country. This city is one of his big cash cows. He doesn't like it when people interfere with his business. So, naturally, he was not a fan of any other criminals that tried to make it big without his permission, like Delta's father.

"So, he spent a while hunting any members of the organization down that he could. He didn't have much luck for a long time."

"There's others?"

"There were, once."

"What happened to them?"

"Most of them are dead. Some fled the city. There are a couple who still linger. Gamma and Meta still live in the city, and occasionally I contact them, but they're no longer a part of our organization."

"You can't really call it an organization, Sigma. It's just you, me, a guy who's mentally five and a douchebag at a computer," Church grumbled, still picking at his nails.

"Be that as it may, it isn't the point of this story. The Director looked for a long time. Eventually, he caught one of us. That's what we've always assumed, at any rate. One of us vanished, and soon after... they knew where we all were. Of course, they went after Delta's father first, given that he was the leader.

"First I knew of any of it was when the Director's men turned up at my apartment. I managed to escape, and then I went to Delta's home as fast as I could. Found the parents dead, still curled up in bed. Didn't look like they'd ever been woken up. Took me a full hour to find Delta and Theta. They were very well concealed in the basement. Had a panic room and everything. Apparently, Delta had been awake—never did like sleeping—and had smuggled him and Theta down there as soon as he heard noise." Sigma sighed. "Their father had run them through the procedure for 'strange men breaking into the house' a million times. I suppose that part of their training was worthwhile, after all."

Sigma flipped a page over and started a new drawing in his sketchbook. "That was about three years ago. I took them in for a while, but Delta was insistent on continuing with everything his father had taught him. Of course, the Director went about killing anyone with a connection to the group, and anyone who was sane fled or hid. So, by the time Delta was ready to start the business up again, there was only him, Theta and me. No-one else wanted anything to do with it."

There was silence for a little while. Church sat there, squinting a little as he thought about it, before blurting out, "What the fuck?"

"Hm?"

"Why the fuck would Delta willingly go back to that kind of shit? 'Oh, my father was a controlling dickbag who thought we were soldiers and now he's dead because he pissed off people while doing his criminal shit. I know! I'll do the exact same fucking thing!' Fucking logic, right there."

"To Delta, that was the only solution that his brand of logic could come up with." Sigma doodled in what looked like a tiny, angry Church. "Place yourself in his shoes. All his life, he'd been trained to be adjusted to that way of life. Furthermore, his father had spent many years working on building and maintaining a criminal organization. To Delta, letting go would mean that his entire life, as well as Theta's and the majority of his father's, would have been entirely in vain. To him, the only logical response is to make sure that all that effort meant something." Sigma flipped to a new page. "Aside from that... I don't think he knows how to do anything else."

Church crossed his arms, scowling as he looked out the window. He tried to imagine being in Delta's shoes. All he could think about was how fucked it was to drag a little kid along with that.

"He... he shouldn't drag Theta along with it," Church muttered quietly.

"Theta may have chosen to do something else, were he left to his own devices. But he would never leave Delta. ...I'm not sure if Theta could survive in the everyday world without some kind of supervision, in any case."

"Whatever, it's all fucked. And Delta's still shit at running the thing."

"He has his downsides. He's completely logic. He has no instincts, creativity or real leadership abilities. But he does well enough, at least for now." Sigma shut his sketchbook. "I can supply what he doesn't have. Maybe guide him towards an ambition that never belonged to his father. But he'll need time before he gets anywhere."

"Doesn't make him any less of a dick."

"Whatever you want to believe, Leonard."

* * *

Church did eventually manage to actually kill someone. Admittedly, his bullets never seemed to hit what he was aiming at. But he'd managed to shoot people a couple of times, usually whoever was standing next to the person he was aiming at. And eventually, shooting at people just got easier. Church didn't like it, sure, but he could do it. And it didn't bother him too much as long as he kept thinking of them as faceless goons. Sometimes that illusion failed. Like when he'd tried nabbing wallets off the corpses (he'd really needed some cash badly) and found a note from the man's wife asking him to buy fish on the way home. Little things like that sometimes reminded him that these were actually people he was shooting. For the most part, he just tried to shove it to the back of his mind.

There was at least one silver lining. So far, at least, Church had managed to survive all the ridiculous jobs with nothing more than minor injuries. Barring one instance when he'd been shot in the shoulder, which hurt like a bitch. But two months after the incident with Jimmy, he was still alive. Grumpy, but alive.

He and Eddie were still stuck at Delta's house. Delta didn't want Church running off with Eddie, and so it was either both of them staying in the house or Church living separately from his little brother. And the second option was out of the question.

When Church followed Sigma into the house (Sigma was still stuck there, too, as he had not yet found another apartment) he found Eddie in the living room with Theta, scribbling pictures with crayon and chattering happily. Eddie and Theta seemed to get along well. It was the first time Eddie had had someone who acted close to his own age to play around with, even if Theta was physically almost a decade older.

"Leo! Leo, Leo, Leo!" As soon as Eddie saw Church, he hurried over and tugged Church's hand eagerly. "I drews some drawings! Lookit!" He dragged Church over to where he and Theta had been drawing. He picked up some and shoved them happily at Church.

Looking at them, Church could kind of distinguish the different people in them. Sigma and Theta seemed to show up a lot, as did Church himself. Delta was in a couple of them, too. Church rifled through them, but almost dropped them when he came across the last one.

The last one was clearly a drawing of their father, with scrawled stick-figures to represent him and Eddie standing over him. There was a lot of red in that picture.

"Eddie, what the hell?" Church yelped. Eddie looked confused and a little upset.

"It's Daddy. The night that we ran off."

"I know, but... Jesus, why would you draw something like that?!"

"Well... It was scary. But if we hadn't done that we wouldn't be here. We wouldn't know Theta and Sigma and Delta. And they are much nicer people than Daddy. Even though Delta keeps hiding in the basement. So... It was sort of a good thing that happened." Eddie looked up at him with wide eyes. He looked afraid, like Church was going to shout at him. "Is that bad?"

Church put down the pictures with a sigh. "Probably shouldn't say it out loud. But, I guess that sort of makes sense." If they hadn't killed their father, then they'd just be living the same life. Church would still be stealing things to help Eddie, it just didn't require being shot at. And Eddie would spend practically all his time locked up in the house with an emotionally abusive father who constantly accused him of killing their mother.

Later on, whenever Church considered quitting or trying to run again, this time from the people who had forced him into being a full-on criminal... He'd remember what Eddie said. He'd remember that, even if living at home had been more dangerous for him... that Eddie was safer and happier with Delta and Theta than he'd ever been before.

Eddie was happier this way. And if he was happier this way, then Church would keep things going like that.

* * *

"Delta? Delta? ...Dee?"

Delta's first realization was that Sigma must have completed his most recent job successfully. The second was that his face was pressed against a keyboard. Delta lifted his head to see Sigma standing next to him. Furthermore, his computer screen was little more than a mass of meaningless letters.

"Did someone place a sleep-inducing drug in my drink?" Delta mumbled. His father had done that once. The first time he'd lectured Delta for not being on his guard. After that, Delta had always checked his drinks. But there was always a chance of missing some little known sedative.

"I'd say it was more likely that you just fell asleep on the keyboard."

Delta supposed, given that he'd been awake for forty-eight hours and thirty-one minutes, that it was a reasonable conclusion. "Regardless of the reason, there is no time for sleep. I have various objectives to complete before I retire to bed." Delta looked at his computer screen for a moment before adding, "I shall have to start over. This document is little more than random letters."

"Get some rest. If you keep pushing yourself too far, you'll die from exhaustion."

"I am far from that, Sigma. If it were currently a serious danger, I would rest."

Sigma sat down and studied Delta closely, before saying, "Even your father took the occasional break. Not sleeping won't disappoint him."

Delta rubbed his eyes, trying to blink any sleep out of them. "I do not require any rest at this time. Please keep out of my business, Sigma."

Sigma let out a little sigh. "Dee, we've been doing this since you were six. If you don't go to bed, you know what's coming."

Delta did know. Both him and Theta had been rather unruly as children when it came to bedtime. At one point, they had both hidden in the next door neighbor's garage just to escape bedtime. Their father had always found them quickly. Sigma was almost as good. And once he found them...

Delta still didn't move, despite knowing what would follow, so Sigma carried out his threat. He quickly grabbed Delta and slung him over his shoulder. It wasn't difficult, given that Sigma was substantially bigger than him. Persistently thumping his fists against Sigma's back did little to dissuade him.

"Sigma, put me down. This is undignified," Delta said flatly.

"Well, if you just went to bed when I told you to..."

"You are not a babysitter any longer. Nor are you my father, regardless of your occasional attempts to emulate parental behavior."

"Someone has to look after you, don't they? Who do you think leaves food next to your computer? If I didn't, you'd probably starve." Sigma carried Delta through the house nonchalantly. This was considered such a normal activity that when he passed by the living room, where Theta was sitting and reading Dr. Seuss, he merely looked up for a moment before returning to his book.

Once Sigma had dumped him on the bed, Delta glared at him and said, "I do not require coddling. Kindly mind your own business."

"Fine. Find a caretaker who doesn't mind your criminal behavior and I'll stop."

Delta crossed his arms and said, "I wish to continue working."

"It's not happening tonight. You're already here. Go to sleep."

"Well. If it is the only way to stop you pestering me, very well," Delta said stiffly.

"Good." Sigma patted Delta on the shoulder for a moment before saying, "Just sleep for now." He left the room and shut the door behind him. Delta waited a few moments before slipping out of bed and heading to where he kept his laptop. There was simply no spare time for sleeping.

A few moments later, as he set up his laptop in the dark, there was a knocking at his door. Delta quickly returned to bed before saying, "Who is there?"

The door swung open and Theta stuck his head in. "Dee? ...I want to go to sleep."

"Then the logical solution would be to go to your room and climb into the bed, as that is generally the accepted norm when it comes to sleep," Delta said.

"I know. But I'm scared. ...My nightlight broke."

Delta considered this for a few moments. "And you are prevented from turning on your regular lights?"

"It's too bright. Can I stay in here?"

That would prevent Delta from getting any work done. On the other hand, he had certain brotherly duties that he was required to perform. Being a source of comfort during distressing moments caused by malfunctioning lights shaped like a star was one of those duties.

"You may stay."

Theta's expression brightened at these words and he practically jumped onto the bed, making it creak ominously. He immediately clinged to Delta. "Thank you." After a moment of pause, he said, "I locked all the windows. Will that keep people out?"

"If they truly want to enter, I doubt a flimsy lock will stop them," Delta said dryly. When he felt Theta cling tighter, he added, "I have a handgun in the bedside drawers."

"What kind? ...You know what, I'll just check, hang on." Theta let go of Delta and rummaged around in the bedside drawers for the gun. He spent a couple of minutes examining it, making sure it was clean and loaded, before placing it back in the drawers. He clung to Delta again. "Okay. I'm less scared now."

"Good." Delta awkwardly patted Theta on the head. He was never comfortable with any form of physical affection. Theta was the only person who was ever allowed more than a cordial handshake or a pat on the shoulder.

Theta was asleep minutes later, arm still curled around Delta. He probably could have quietly gotten up and returned to his laptop. Theta would not have noticed, and he'd fulfilled the obligations of the older sibling.

But he stayed with Theta anyway.

* * *

Before Church knew it, five years had gone by.

Nothing much changed during those five years. Church kept working for Delta. Delta eventually stopped treating Church and Eddie as hostages and gave them permission to move out provided they stayed in a nearby part of the city, but Church never got around to it

Delta continued to send Church on dangerous jobs. Church slowly got competent enough that he was sometimes sent on the more dangerous ones by himself. He still had horrible aim with a gun, but there were other ways to kill people.

Killing people just wasn't such a big deal anymore. It really did become everyday. Although as time went by, there was less murder. Almost like people had just decided to stay the fuck out the way. Church was fine with that.

The only thing that really changed drastically was Eddie. It felt like he grew up extremely fast, maybe because Church was so busy that he couldn't always take care of Eddie as much as he would like. All of a sudden, Eddie was eleven. No longer drawing crayon pictures, although he still enjoyed painting. It wasn't uncommon for Eddie, Theta and Sigma to splatter the house in paint.

Church's daily routine seemed to consist of jobs and sleeping, with whatever spare time he had dedicated to taking care of Eddie. There was no room for anything else. Just routine.

Nothing changed until five years down the track.

* * *

"You think it is a good idea? The history could complicate the matter."

"It would be better if we had a doctor on stand-by. It would save us having to make deals with any black market doctor who will take us. I know this one by reputation. As long as the work is interesting..."

"What's going on? I wanna fucking sleep," Church grumbled, stomping into the basement. Delta was gazing at his computer screen and occasionally tapping the keys, while Sigma sat on a nearby chair.

"It's nine in the morning," Delta observed.

"So? I'm tired!"

"I have pleasant news. We have dealt with many small, illicit organizations in the area over the last five years."

"I know. One of them shot me. It sucked," Church grumbled.

"But, at the present time... aside from the Director, there remains only the occasional petty drug dealer or smuggler. There is a wide gap in the market. It is now the perfect time to acquire assets."

"Meaning?"

"We purchase enough to control the illegal trades among the city. There will be hardly anyone who will attempt to intrude, because they are all deceased or have moved on in other ways. We have two contacts... old co-workers of my father. Willing to work again now that the window of opportunity is open."

"That's pretty awesome. Can I sleep now?"

"Negative. I need to talk to you." Delta looked at Sigma. "Can you handle Gamma and Meta by yourself?"

"Of course. I'll have them here tonight." Sigma clapped Delta on the shoulder before leaving. Delta turned his chair around to face Church. "I have a new job for you."

"Shocker. What's that?"

"I want you to lead us, at least for the moment."

"You're joking, right?"

"I do not joke."

Church frowned, plopping onto Sigma's vacated chair. "Why? Seriously, why? I'm not a leader, I'm not even good with a gun."

"You are not ideal, I shall admit. But... To put it simply, there is no-one else who I can consider." Delta held up a finger. "Theta is highly skilled where it matters but is too emotionally young." Delta raised another finger. "Sigma may be rational and calm, but he is also ambitious and I would feel uncomfortable giving him a higher position of power, however much I value his counsel." Delta kept counting off fingers as he spoke. "The others available to be part of this... Meta is unbalanced and mute due to a throat injury, while Gamma lies so often that it is impossible to distinguish it from the truth." Delta lowered his fingers. "As for yourself... despite your dubious marksmanship—"

"Up yours, the sight is off on my gun."

"You have proven yourself trustworthy and the fact that you are not dead proves your survivability. Furthermore, you keep your calm in bad situations—"

"Keep my—have you fucking heard me on a mission?!"

"You scream a lot, yes. But you do not lose your head," Delta said dismissively. "Finally, your ambition levels are not so high that you would try twisting the group for your own purposes. I do not plan to let you run everything as you wish. In truth, we would be roughly equal in power. But you would be the more apparent leader."

"Then why don't you just run the whole damn thing?"

"I... am not good with people." The tone Delta used was halting. He was clearly uncomfortable about admitting that he had difficulties in any field. "This may only be a temporary arrangement, until we can acquire someone better. But for now... you are simply the only choice."

"Well, shit."

"If you maintain the arrangement successfully until I can acquire a replacement, then I shall let you and your brother leave, should you wish to. You will be allowed to go free and do whatever you like."

Church closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again. "Fuck, I was hoping this was just a fucked up dream. So, you'll still be making up all the plans and stuff, right?"

"Yes."

"Well... Fuck it, I'll give it a shot. Now can I sleep?"

"Negative." Delta went back to staring at his computer screen. "Now, in regards to the work I have lined up for today. There is one more man who I am considering. I... have doubts on his trustworthiness, but as someone who has had medical training he would be invaluable, and Sigma believes he will be loyal so long as the jobs are interesting. I want you to come with me to convince him."

"Why me?"

"Aside from the fact that you now represent this organization, he would be somewhat interested in meeting you. In truth, you have both met once before."

"I think I would remember it."

"I am sure you remember it. Do you recall the very first job I sent you on? The one I sent through Jimmy?"

There was a moment of silence before it clicked.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

* * *

"This is absolutely insane," Church muttered, following Delta through the streets. Delta kept peering down at a piece of paper which had directions scribbling on it. Theta was also with them, but he had chosen to use his skateboard as an alternative to walking and was trying to balance on it somewhere behind them. "You want to hire O'Malley? He's a fucking psycho, I could tell that from the few minutes I spent tied up on his floor!"

"Yes, the tying up. He was most likely planning to sell your organs on the black market. He made a living doing that, even before his surgical licence was taken away, and I have reason to believe he may dabble in serial killing."

"You don't just dabble in serial killing! Jesus, no wonder they took his fucking licence..."

"Actually..." Delta looked down at the directions, before turning left and hurrying down another street. "His licence was taken away because he was stealing supplies from the hospital. Primarily drugs that cannot be purchased over the counter. The package you stole from his house was proof of that activity. In short, he lost his surgical licence because of you."

"And so you think the best way to get him to help us is to get me, the person who apparently ruined his career, to knock on his door and ask. That's a brilliant idea. Really," Church said dryly. "I am filled with confidence."

"O'Malley has a strong weakness for things he finds interesting. Working with you, someone who managed to escape him, would fulfill the criteria."

"Wouldn't he just stab me in the back?"

"He would be more likely to stab you in the front so that he could watch your facial expressions," Delta said dismissively. He stopped in front of a small house. "This is it."

"Great, I'm gonna die," Church muttered. "I hate you so much right now, you know."

"I am aware of that." Delta looked behind him at Theta and quietly gestured to him. Theta nodded and clambered off the skateboard, tucking it underneath his arm as he trotted up and took his place at Delta's side. "You have your weapon ready?"

"Yeah, Dee."

"Excellent." Delta raised his hand and knocked on the door three times.

"What do you want?" a voice yelled from the inside.

"We would like to discuss business."

"And who, exactly, is 'we?'"

"You know me by the name of Delta."

There was a long pause, and then a short chuckle. "Delta? You evade capture for years, and suddenly show up on the doorstep of someone who ratted you out. Interesting method of hiding. I thought you were supposed to be logical."

"It is bad manners to conduct conversation through a door, O'Malley. Let us inside, and we can discuss this further."

"Well, why not." The door was unlocked, and the door swung open. O'Malley looked first at Delta, looking rather amused. "You look quite different that what I imagined."

"I know."

He looked at Theta for a few moments, his expression unchanging, but then his eyes moved over to Church. His expression changed from amused to furious to a strange, creepy smile in less than a second. It was rather startling.

"Have you brought the thief as a bargaining chip? Do I get to carve him into organ transplants if I agree to your little business deal?" he purred. "Because if so, I'll take it."

"You're fucking crazy," Church muttered.

"How about we cut the tongue out first?"

"Theta," Delta said quietly. Theta nodded, pulled back his jacket and showed O'Malley the handgun he had tucked inside. "O'Malley. If you persist in threatening my associate, Theta will give you a demonstration of his skills with a firearm." Theta closed his jacket again and smiled cheerfully. "There will be no mutilation. We are here to recruit you for a criminal organization that primarily works with transporting goods discreetly. However, we have a tendency to attract a large amount of unfriendly attention, meaning your skills would be invaluable to us. But we cannot pay you with organs that belong to the Alpha."

"Alpha?" Church questioned.

"That is you."

"Oh, okay."

"A puppet leader, hm? Certainly an angle I can get behind," O'Malley murmured. He smiled widely. "So, would this scheme of yours have anything to do with the large amount of bodies that have been arriving at my back door in the last few years? Quite a lot of criminals have been dying. It's been quite good for business."

"Yeah, that was us. Kind of. Sometimes," Church said. "Look, either you're gonna help us or you're not. Honestly, I'd rather you didn't. You'd probably stab me in the back first chance you get."

"Depends on how interesting your little group is." O'Malley strolled further back into his house. Following, Church saw that a large portion of the house was actually a very makeshift operating table. It was shoddy, but very clean. "If this manages to be interesting, then you are guaranteed my loyalty. Carving up organs from second-hand bodies is somewhat dull. A change of career might be nice." He chuckled. "If things get boring, you might have problems. But as long as they are interesting I will cooperate. On one condition."

"Which is?" Delta questioned.

"We kill anyone, I get the bodies. I still have a business to run. Also, if we catch anyone alive... permission to torture would be wonderful."

"That is fucked up," Church muttered.

"Deal," Delta said immediately.

"Hey! I thought you said I was the leader!"

"In the field, yes. These are simply side negotiations."

"No, fuck you, we're outside the house. We're totally in the field."

* * *

Church was certain of one thing. It was a room of freaks.

They had tried to cram all of the new employees, as well as the old ones, into the rather small living room. Church was jammed between Gamma, a thin, bald man who looked fairly normal, were it not for his blank expression, and Meta, a giant with a shaved, tattooed head who was watching Eddie unblinkingly, something that was sitting badly with Church.

Church was about to tell Meta to knock it off when Sigma walked past, touched Meta on the shoulder and said, "Don't stare, Maine. It's rude." Meta immediately looked downwards and Sigma smiled slightly and took a seat on a nearby chair that had been dragged in from elsewhere in the house. Delta and O'Malley—dubbed Omega by Delta now—were seated on similar chairs. Delta looking stiff and uncomfortable at such a crowded room, while O'Malley was lounging back and grinning. Theta and Eddie were seated on the floor, making paper airplanes.

"Alpha."

It took Church a few moments to respond. He kept forgetting it was his codename.

"Yeah, what?"

Delta stared at him like it was obvious. "Address them."

"Now? I barely know what we're—"

Delta raised an eyebrow, as if to say, 'do you want to say you don't know what you're doing in front of your co-workers?'

"...Okay, whatever." Church stood up. "Uh... guys?" Six pairs of eyes immediately focused on him. (It should have been seven, but Theta was more concerned with his paper airplane.) "So, uh... do good work and don't get yourselves fucking killed and arrested. Alright?"

Omega snorted at these words.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, O'Malley, let's see you do better." Church scratched the back of his head before adding, "We got... you know, big plans and all that. So, uh. Stick around. They'll be money and you'll get to stab shit if you're interested in that kind of thing. Alright?"

Moment of silence, before most of the others nodded and made... well, apathetic noises, mostly. But they didn't sound too derisive. Only Omega rolled his eyes. Eddie put up his hand.

"Yeah, Eddie? You don't have to raise a hand, this isn't a fucking—whoops, shit—uh, I mean... nevermind. This isn't a classroom."

"Can I have a codename?" Eddie asked.

"The hell do you want a codename for? ...Hell, why are you even in here? You're not going to go out and shoot people with us," Church said sternly.

"I felt left out. And the codenames sound cool."

"Uh. Sure, I guess. Can't hurt." Church looked at Delta. "What's the Greek letter for E?"

"That would be Epsilon."

"Alright. You can be Epsilon."

"Cool."

* * *

"Simmons! Where's the bottle opener?" Grif yelled.

"Haven't used it lately, but you were drinking a couple of days ago. So you probably left it under the couch," Simmons called back, as he finished typing on his computer. He was creating a computer virus for a client. As soon as Grif walked in, Simmons switched off the screen. He still had no plans to let Grif know about it.

"Yeah, it was under the couch. Thanks, man."

"No problem. Just do me a favour. When you get blind stinking drunk tonight, try not to do it in the living room. I hate having to clean up afterwards."

"Where else am I supposed to?" Grif raised the bottle opener. "Come on, quit the working. It's fucking New Years' Eve."

"I know, I'm just finishing up."

"Awesome, because there's a shit ton of alcohol and sparklers out here."

Simmons raised an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed that I wouldn't touch alcohol while living under the same roof."

"No, no. We agreed you couldn't drink while under the same roof as Sister. And she's at a friend's house for New Years," Grif said, grinning. "You can drink as long as she's not here, sure."

"I don't know..."

"Come on, if I get drunk by myself it's just going to be depressing!"

Simmons was starting to get a slight sense of deja vu. Perhaps members of the Grif family just had an inbuilt urge to force him into drinking.

"Alright. I'll drink. But I'm not getting drunk."

* * *

Inevitably, any conversation that Grif and Simmons had always turned towards ridiculous subjects that had absolutely no relevance whatsoever. This was doubly true when either of them had been drinking.

"What do you think would happen if a vampire bit a werewolf?" Grif asked. He fumbled over his words a little, but was holding it together quite well considering that he had drunk enough to make a pyramid out of his beer cans.

"I guess you'd end up with a werepire? Easy. The real question is..." As Simmons talked, he waved the hand holding his own beer around, narrowly avoiding splashing the contents everywhere. "Would a werepire have the weaknesses of both vampires and werewolves? Like, be vulnerable to sunlight, crosses and silver bullets? Or would he have to be faced with the weaknesses of both creatures at the same time?"

"You mean, like, using a cross made of silver? In the sunlight?"

"Yeah."

"Nah, that'd just be stupid. Who is gonna wave around a silver cross?" Grif drained another beer can before starting to build another pyramid. "Okay... What about if either a vampire or a werewolf was bitten by a zombie?"

"Well, a werewolf could become a zombie. Sure. But a vampire couldn't. Being bitten by a zombie turns someone into the walking dead, but a vampire already is dead, see?"

"Hm. So you couldn't have a werezombiepire?"

"Of course not, that's just ridiculous."

"And a werepire or werezombie isn't?"

"No, because that's backed up by... whatever vague science they work on. There's nothing saying you couldn't have a werepire." Simmons considered this for a moment, then added, "A werezombiepire would be easier to kill than any of the three separately, because it would have the weaknesses of all three. And chopping off the heads of vampires and werewolves worked just as well as it does for zombies."

"That's true."

"I still say your zombie plan will never work. The highways would be clogged. You'll be a sitting duck.":

"Well, maybe if you actually told me what you were planning to do once your food runs out, then I could tell if your plan was better," Grif retorted, punching Simmons lightly in the shoulder. They both lapsed into amiable silence, watching the clock. Still ten minutes before New Years.

"What'll this be? Fifth year of being roomies?" Grif asked.

"Sixth," Simmons said immediately.

"Right. Sixth. Dude, that's like a quarter of my life." Grif opened another can of beer. He still didn't seem anything more than lightly buzzed. Simmons looked down at his own beer, wondering if Grif was a robot on the inside. It would explain the almost superhuman resistance to alcohol. But Simmons quickly dismissed the notion. Grif was too... flawed. Who would build a robot to be a chubby, lazy, alcoholic dumbass?

"Yeah. Long time. Regret wasting your time here at all?"

"Nah. I mean, you're kind of a buzzkill sometimes, but not all the time."

Soon, it was five minutes before New Years. And at that point, Grif and Simmons were back to random arguments.

"That's ridiculous. How could Bruce Lee kick Batman's ass?" Simmons demanded. "Bruce Lee was cool, sure, but he's just a normal guy who knows kung fu."

"Yeah, so? Batman wouldn't be able to do shit without all the fancy gadgets and the outfit and shit. If you took those away, Bruce Lee would fucking kick Batman's ass all over Gotham."

"Okay, let's say that was true. Even so, how would Bruce get Batman to drop all his fancy stuff? Batman would get him before he could manage it. Besides, without the fancy stuff he isn't Batman. He's just Bruce Wayne." Simmons paused. "Why is Bruce Lee even fighting Batman?"

"Maybe it's part of a bet. Maybe he wanted to prove he was the stronger Bruce. Or maybe it's because some idiot nerd insulted him by saying he could get defeated by a guy dressed as a bat."

"You're just insulting Batman because you're afraid of bats."

A robot wouldn't be afraid of bats, either.

"I'm not afraid of bats, who said I was afraid of bats?" Grif said quickly. "And I never said Batman wasn't cool. Bruce Lee is just more badass, is all."

Plus, a robot would be able to calculate the odds and realise that Batman could easily beat Bruce Lee in a fight. Simmons continued to ponder the reasons why Grif couldn't possibly be a robot. There were a lot of them. Hell, Grif was probably the most unrobotic... the most human... person he'd ever met. Admittedly, Simmons had never been too sociable. The main people in his life had been his family, all of whom were more robotic than robots, and besides that there had only really been Grif and Sister. Still...

Grif was still rambling.

"Now, Superman. Superman could beat Bruce Lee. Because his only weakness is kryptonite, and Bruce Lee doesn't have any," Grif said. "But Batman? No freaking way."

Simmons wasn't really listening at this point. He was just watching Grif talk. Lazy, stupid, alcoholic, incredibly flawed Grif.

"Now, if Bruce Lee was a superhero..." Grif started. He never got a chance to explain what would happen if Bruce Lee became a superhero, because Simmons grabbed Grif's shoulders and pulled him forward, smashing their mouths together.

After a few long moments, during which all Simmons could really feel was the texture of Grif's shirt underneath his fingers, as well as the strong taste of alcohol on his breath, he pulled back. And then his mind caught up.

_Oh shit. I just kissed my roommate. Again. ...Why the hell did I keep doing this?!_

Grif blinked a few times, before eying the beer can Simmons was holding. He sighed. "Alright... You're a handsy drunk, right? How much have you had?"

Simmons looked down at his drink. "Uh. Almost one."

"You are such a lightweight."

_He's giving you an out! Take it! Then you can forget this ever happened!_

"I'm, uh... I'm not that much of a lightweight. I'm not drunk. I'm not even tipsy."

_Aren't you listening to me? Fine. Just ignore my advice._

"Then what the hell were you doing?" Grif said flatly.

"Uh. I was thinking you were a lazy idiot who couldn't be a robot, and then..." Simmons waved his hands nervously. "Uh. Yeah. That happened. Seemed like a good idea at the time. ...Sorry."

_Yeah, he's totally gonna get angry and leave again now. Nice work, dumbass._

Simmons twisted his hands together nervously before hiding his face in them. He could feel his ears going red. Next to him, he heard Grif shift a bit where he was sitting.

"So... You're not drunk."

Simmons shook his head, face still in his hands.

"Not even a bit."

Another head shake.

"And this isn't just some sort of conquest thing where you bag each member of my family? Because if you're doing that, I'm gonna be both mad and disgusted."

"What? No!"

There was another long stretch of silence, this one less amiable and more awkward, during which Simmons was just waiting for Grif to get up and leave. Or jump out the window, if he was that disturbed. Instead he heard a rustling. Simmons peered through his fingers at Grif, who had stuck his hand underneath the couch cushion. After a few moments, he pulled out a packet of Oreos.

"Oreo?" Grif offered, holding out the packet.

"How long have you been keeping those underneath there?"

"Uh. At least a week."

"Gross."

"Alright, then." Grif shrugged before putting the packet of cookies back underneath the cushion. "So basically... you're saying you'd actually hit this?" He waved his hands in a vague downwards direction. Simmons coloured more and laced his fingers together, looking anywhere but at Grif.

"Do you have to be so blunt about it?"

"Subtlety is for losers. So... do you?"

"Uh, well... uh..." Simmons fumbled with his words, twisting his hands together nervously. "Um. Well, I never actually specifically thought that. I mean, you're really not that attractive—"

"Fuck you, I'm awesome," Grif said lightly.

"—but then there is that annoying voice in the back of my head that keeps making really lewd comments every time you walk around the house naked, although that is still disgusting and awkward... And I don't really like doing that kind of stuff, because I don't like being naked in front of people and sometimes it's hard to convince them to keep the lights off. Uh, but even though you're fat and lazy, I guess I wouldn't really mind if—"

This time, Grif interrupted his babbling by leaning forward and kissing him roughly. Simmons' stomach squiggled pleasantly, and he reached upwards and tangled his fingers in Grif's hair. ...It felt like it needed to be washed, but Simmons didn't really care at that moment.

After a while (could have been a couple of seconds, could have been several years) Grif pulled away a little. Only about an inch, so that they were still very close.

"You know... I probably would have gotten the message a lot sooner if you'd just said yes. Can't you just be blunt? I told you. Subtlety is for losers."

"Shut up. ...So, you're fine with this? Really?"

Grif rolled his eyes. "No. No, Simmons. I just kissed you to be a douche," he said sarcastically. "Of course I'm fine with it. You know... as long as we don't have to get super mushy or buy flowers for each other or anything."

"Flowers make me sneeze."

"Awesome." Grif flopped back against the couch cushions, almost like nothing at all had happened. Except he was grinning a bit more. Simmons glanced at the clock.

"Fuck. We missed the countdown. It's New Years already."

Grif pushed himself to his feet. "Already? Where the hell did I put the sparklers?"

* * *

"This isn't really a place for kids," C.T noted, eying Junior as he cleaned glasses. Tucker sighed, rocking Junior back and forth. The only reaction this got was a mumbled 'blargh.' It was only a day since Crunchbite showed up at his door with Junior. Tucker was still getting his head around the idea that this was somehow his kid. Sure, Tucker figured that he was bound to accidentally end up with a kid at some point. He was a pretty big womanizer, after all, and he did everything pretty awesomely so the odds were good that a few of his little swimmers had gotten loose.

But acquiring a kid through some fucked-up experiment? Tucker hadn't been expecting that. He should have got a translator for that stupid contract.

"I don't know if I can do this," Tucker muttered, looking down at Junior.

"So what are you going to do then? Just leave him for the streets?" C.T asked.

"No way, man. The streets ain't no place for a kid. I should know, I grew up on the streets, fighting for survival..."

"No, you didn't."

"Sorry, I've been running that story lately. Been visiting those youth help groups. I can still pass for pretty young, and one of the volunteers there was mad hot." Tucker shrugged. "But of course I wouldn't. If I can't handle it, I'll just send him back to Crunchbite. He's probably gonna end up taking care of Junior most of the time anyway. I think. Can't really understand him."

"Yeah, it's a tricky language."

"How can it be tricky? It has, like, two words. Just 'blargh blargh honk.'"

"Hey, don't say that in polite company."

"What? What'd I say?!"

"Some grammatically poor version of a 'your mother' joke. Quite a crude one."

"Fuck." Tucker frowned as he continued to rock Junior back and forth. "You know what? I haven't visited Ma in a while. Not for years, actually. I kinda just quit because she was usually so drunk that she would pass out on the couch not long after I got there. But... I dunno. I figure her having a grandkid is something I should probably tell her about."

"No point if you're just gonna pass the kid back to Crunchbite."

"Yeah, but might as well. Although this isn't the sort of ideal father-son thing I was hoping for. You know, where I see him for like eight hours every other weekend and send checks to some woman I hate."

"Mm. Ideal. Right."

* * *

To be more precise, it had been six years since Tucker last visited his mother. She never seemed to remember he'd visited, so it just hadn't seemed like a big deal to stop.

"You ready to meet your granny, Junior?" Tucker asked. The baby lying in his arms made a 'honk' noise before gurgling happily. "Eh, don't be so enthusiastic. She's a bit weird. Smells like liquor all the time, and the food she kept in the house... it was impossible to tell what it actually was. Used to think she was cooking zebra meat."

Junior's only response to this was to gurgle again.

"I know, right? Bet Crunchbite gives you better food than that. He's a scientist, right?" Tucker kept walking along the street, towards his mother's house. "Anyway, she also swears a lot. Does Crunchbite swear? How can you tell?" Tucker shifted how he was carrying Junior, holding him more protectively. His mother was a relatively benevolent drunk, sure. But no harm being careful. "She's something called a hooker. You know what that is? ...Of course you don't, you're like two weeks old. Although you're rather squirmy for such a young kid." Junior gurgled happily again, waving his tiny little fists around. "Yeah, I think she'll like you. Maybe we'll be lucky, and she'll actually be sober."

Finally reaching the house, Tucker noticed that it'd been cleaned up considerably. It had never been completely rundown, but his mother never had time for doing more than what was absolutely necessary. New coat of paint, and there was pots of flowers next to the front door. Perhaps she had convinced a john to pay her some extra cash.

Tucker knocked on the door and waited. A man he had never seen before answered it.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Uh. I'm looking for Ma." Tucker squinted. "You look different from her customers. Who're you?"

"I'm sorry, but the only people living here are me and my wife, and we have no children," the man said, looking confused. He turned back into the house and called out. "Dear! You didn't have a child before our marriage, did you?"

"What?! No! What kind of question is that?" a female voice yelled back.

"Yeah, your mother isn't here."

"What? Why would she move? How long have you been here?"

"Three years, I'd estimate."

"Alright."

Tucker walked away from the house, thinking. His mother wouldn't have moved without telling him, would she? Who knew. Still, Tucker couldn't really see her moving. She would have had to stop spending all her spare cash on alcohol, for one. No, she wouldn't have moved...

But if she hadn't moved house... then...

The one other conclusion came to mind. Tucker stopped walking for a moment. Then he turned around, started walking in the direction of the local graveyard.

* * *

After a long time of walking through the graveyard, Tucker found out that the conclusion he came to was correct.

Tucker sat down in front of his mother's grave, still holding Junior. Junior peered at the headstone with interest, before returning to sucking on his thumb. Tucker tilted his head, watching the grave and wondering how he was supposed to feel at the moment.

He felt like he should be sad. This was his mother, after all. The only parent he'd ever known. But though there was a sort of numb feeling in his stomach, he just couldn't find it in him to be that upset.

"Well, Junior. This is your granny," Tucker sighed. Junior didn't respond, he seemed to be drifting off to sleep. "What do you think? Am I a horrible person because I don't feel bad? ...What am I talking to you for? You can't even talk back."

Junior gave a sleepy honk. Tucker snorted.

"For all I know, that could have been your first word in... whatever Crunchbite and those other weirdos speak. Don't even know what the language is called. Blarggity blarg blarg?" Tucker gazed back at the grave. "...I don't know. She wasn't really motherly. In all honesty, she was more like a drunk roommate who kept almost setting the house on fire.

"I think there was some time early on when she wasn't always drunk. But it's really fuzzy. I was, like, three at the time." Tucker frowned, looked down at Junior. "Huh. Guess you don't really have a mother, do you? Just two dads. Two biological ones. How the fuck did Crunchbite even do that?"

Junior was fast asleep at this point. Face scrunched up in his sleep, that little tuft of blue-tinted hair sticking out. How did he get blue-tinted hair? Tucker had assumed Crunchbite's hair was dyed, how could anyone be a natural blue?

Tucker kept watching the grave. Eventually he spoke up.

"Hey, Ma."

He paused, almost like he was waiting for a response. Which was ridiculous. He was talking to a grave, for fucks sake.

"Uh. Sorry I didn't visit much before you died. You were always kind of drunk, I figured you wouldn't notice." Tucker shifted, making sure not to wake Junior. "Anyway. This is your grandson, Junior. Don't go asking me who the lucky mother is, he doesn't have one. Two dads. Before you ask, I'm not gay. It was some weird science experiment. Yeah, I know it doesn't make sense, but... well. That's how it is." Tucker stopped talking for a few moments, before continuing. "So, what's the afterlife like? Did you see Dad there? I mean, I don't know if Dad is there or not. Maybe he's still alive. You probably wouldn't want to see him, would you? I mean, I kind of would. But more curiosity than anything. Kinda would have liked to meet both parents."

There had been quite a long period of Tucker's childhood when he'd really wanted to meet whoever his father was. He'd used to dream that his dad was really someone important. Like a superhero or a king or some shit like that. Of course, this was when he was about five. Sometimes he wondered if his dad had just gone on a long trip. Maybe he'd come back one day, his mother would stop drinking and they could all be happy. Tucker had thought that once. Once he figured out what his mother did for a living, and seen the kinds of men who usually hired her services (normally, his mother operated out of the house, but occasionally johns visited her) he'd realised that his dad was probably just one of them. He'd lost most of the interest in the idea of having a dad after that. Given up the idea of ever having a proper family.

Tucker poked one of Junior's tiny fists. In his sleep, Junior shifted and his little hand curled around Tucker's finger. Tucker smiled softly, before looking back to the grave.

"So, yeah. I came to show you Junior. And I guess I've done that now." Tucker stood up, still being careful not to wake Junior. "I don't know if I'm cut out for parenting. But... I guess I'll do my best. So that Junior doesn't have to make up ridiculous dreams about a missing parent, too. Maybe I can teach him about conning, you know? Make it a family thing. Although following Crunchbite's footsteps and becoming a scientist might be better for him. Who knows.

"And, uh. Just so you know." Tucker nodded at the grave. "You weren't the best mother ever, that's true. But I'm kind of glad you weren't a proper parent. I probably wouldn't have ever gotten into conning if I didn't spend so much time wandering around the street instead of staying at home with you. And I love conning, even if it sucks sometimes. So... I'm okay with how things turned out. Even if you were always drunk... It's okay. Just... Just thought you might want to know. ...See you, Ma. Hope the afterlife is good to you."

Tucker walked away from the grave, carrying his new family and leaving the old one behind him. He knew that he couldn't just give Junior up. He'd do what he could to make sure Junior had both his parents in his life.

Of course, with the sort of money Tucker was earning at the moment... It was enough for one person to live off, sure. But maybe not enough for two. And it was sporadic. One month, he could earn loads. The next month, he could barely scrape by. Still, he didn't know how to do anything but con. He'd just have to figure out a way to earn more money while doing so.

But he'd manage it. Somehow, he'd make it work.

* * *

Sister attempted to be as quiet as possible. When she got up at night, she always made sure to be quiet. If she ever woke Grif up, he'd always accuse her of sneaking out even when she was just getting a glass of water.

Of course, this time she actually was sneaking out. Going to hang around with some people at a club. She had been invited by... couldn't remember his name. Random Guy #5. Yeah, that'll do. Of course, it wasn't like Grif could really stop her. She was twenty-two, it was perfectly legal for her to go out at night and drink. The pot part wasn't so legal, sure, but the rest of it was fine.

Still, Grif was so crazy protective. Better for him to just not know about it. Sister crept through the house, towards the front door. She could hear Grif snoring in the lounge room.

"Where are you going?"

Sister covered her mouth to make sure she didn't yelp. Normally she was warned when Simmons was awake, since he usually turned the lights on.

"Why are you sneaking around in the dark?"

"I was just getting a drink. Last time I turned on the lights I woke up Grif. He whined for hours. Anway, you're the one trying to sneak out. Where are you going?"

Sister fidgeted. "Out. And I'm kinda late. Just hanging around with some friends. I'll be back before you and Grif get up."

"Nowhere illegal?"

"No."

Simmons shrugged. "Alright. I guess you don't want Grif knowing?"

"Nah, he'd go through the whole list of long rules. Like how I'm not allowed to go to peep shows without stealing your identity first so we don't end up with the charges..."

"He told you to do what?!"

"That's not important. Besides, it's really hard to steal someone's identity when you're the opposite sex," Sister said dismissively. "Anyway, can you not tell him? Pleeeeeease?"

"Alright, alright." Under his breath, Simmons muttered, "He is so getting cut off..."

* * *

"You are such a wuss," Grif muttered, facing Simmons. Or at least, he thought he was facing Simmons. It was hard to tell because there was a blindfold tied over his eyes.

"I'm a wuss? You're the one getting whiny about the blindfold. It's not like I'm grabbing ropes this time or anything, I'm just getting sick of hiding under the blankets."

"Yeah, you know how we could solve that? You could stop being such a neurotic ass. Seriously." Grif rolled his eyes, even though Simmons wouldn't have been able to tell. "Something is wrong when ropes and blindfolds are normal and seeing you naked is insanely kinky."

"And I already told you it's never gonna happen. Now quit fidgeting!" Simmons said, trying to adjust the blindfold for him. "We probably don't have much time before Sister gets back, and the last time we tried this in my room you tripped over the computer plug."

"Well, why were you running it at the same time? Seriously, can't you stop downloading porn for one minute?"

"I don't download porn!"

"Sure you don't, Simmons. Come on, why else would you always switch the screen off when I go in there?" Simmons didn't answer, which Grif took to mean he'd won the argument. "Told you so. In your face. Come on, let's just keep the lights on. Just this once? Come on. After cutting me off for a week, you owe me that much."

"No. Besides, you were the one being an assface and running up those charges..."

"Your face is an assface."

"You're an idiot."

"Don't care. Point is... It's been a week. A week!"

"Most people can go without sex for a week, dumbass."

"I can, I just don't like to when there are other options available. And like you said, Sister will be back soon. So hurry up, would you?" Grif said impatiently, trying to figure out where exactly Simmons was. Bastard kept moving. "Dammit, keep talking. I'm trying to follow your voice."

"Well, you're doing a crap job. You're facing the wrong direction," Simmons laughed. Grif felt his hands skim his shoulders before Simmons grabbed him from behind, lips brushing his neck just softly enough to be somewhere between arousing and really annoying.

"Cocktease," Grif muttered, although he grinned at the same time. "Quit it already."

Of course, the phone chose that moment to rang.

"Fuck!" Grif shouted. "I'm gonna kill whoever is on the other side." Moving away from Simmons, Grif attempted to reach the phone. Instead, he tripped over the sofa. "Fucking... fuck." As he started to remove the blindfold, he heard Simmons pick up the phone.

"Hello?" There was a few moments of silence. Grif removed the blindfold in time to see Simmons go very pale and turn to Grif, still holding the phone to his ear.

"Sister... She's in the hospital."

* * *

"Dex!" Sister said cheerfully as Grif rushed into the room, Simmons right behind him. The entire car ride over, Grif hadn't said a word. Neither had Simmons. He hadn't even bitched about Grif's insane driving. He'd just sat there, hands clasped together tightly with a worried expression.

"What the fuck happened?!"

"Oh, you know how it is. I just tripped, that's all," Sister said.

"Tripped? Tripped?! You don't get a fucking broken arm from tripping!" Grif shouted. It wasn't just a broken arm. Sister looked like she'd been punched in the face repeatedly. Bruises all over her face. As she smiled at him, Grif saw that at least one tooth was missing. "Who the fuck did this?"

"No-one did it, Dex. I tripped," she insisted.

"Bull-fucking-shit you did!"

"Sir, you're disturbing the other patients," one of the nurses scolded.

"I don't give a fuck!" Grif snapped. He felt Simmons grab his shoulder.

"Grif, you're just going to get thrown out. Calm down," Simmons said quietly.

"Fuck do you know..." Grif did stop shouting, but rage was bubbling in his stomach. There was no way someone could hurt themselves that badly from tripping. No fucking way. Someone had hurt her. "Sister... who did it? You gotta tell me."

Sister didn't answer until the nurse standing in earshot walked away to tend to another patient. Then she said quietly, "It was just some random guy, alright? I don't really remember that well, I'd taken something weird. Plus, I think I got a concussion or something, it's kinda fucking with my head. Anyway I don't want to say anything about it here, I'd have to say I was taking drugs and I don't want to get in trouble, alright?"

"Who did it?"

"Uh. I don't know... Random Guy #3."

"What the fuck does that mean?!"

"It means I don't know, stupid!" Sister snapped. "Stop asking me! I know what you'd do if I told you, anyway. You'd go all crazy on their butts."

"Damn straight I would!"

"Grif, calm down!" Simmons said nervously. "You're starting to scare me."

"Fuck off, Simmons! This doesn't fucking concern you, alright?"

Simmons stepped back at that outburst. "Um. I'll wait outside the ward until you're done," he muttered, hurrying away. Grif might have felt a little guilty on a different occasion, but at that moment he still felt nothing but anger.

* * *

No matter how much Grif asked (or yelled, more accurately) Sister refused to say who had broken her arm. It wasn't like it was that big a deal. It wasn't like she was planning on going back there after this. Grif tried rephrasing the question after a while, and then moved on to just out-and-out bribery.

"Can I bribe you into telling me if I go get you a packet of M&Ms?" was Grif's last attempt to get her to tell.

"No." Sister did love M&Ms, but it wasn't enough to make her say.

"Alright," Grif sighed. He seemed to have, for the moment, run out of energy to waste on shouting. "Do you want some M&Ms anyway?"

"Can I have the peanut kind?"

"Sure, I guess... I'll come back in a few minutes..." Grif left the ward looking both mad and incredibly depressed. After a couple of seconds, Simmons came back in.

"You feeling alright?"

"I feel like shit. Coming down from whatever that powdery shit they gave me really sucks." Sister saw Simmons open his mouth to ask something, and quickly said, "I'm not going to tell you who the guy was, either."

Simmons closed his mouth again.

"I don't want Grif going crazy."

"Yeah, I get that," Simmons muttered. "I won't tell him if you tell me. I just want to report his attack to the police. If you don't report it, he'll just keep on doing it. Any idea why he beat you up?"

"I think I'd... taken his drink or something. I don't know, I was kinda dizzy." Sister shrugged. "It's fuzzy."

"If it's for something as trivial as that..." Simmons crossed his arms. "Look. The drug part doesn't have to come into it. I just want to make sure this guy gets what he deserves, that's all. I'm not actually going to go out there and beat him up. I'm too skinny for that, anyway."

Sister fiddled with her fingers nervously. "You can't report him. You don't know where he lives. I don't even know that."

"I don't need to know where he lives, I just need to know his name."

Sister didn't like the idea much. She didn't want to risk being called out on all the drugs she'd taken. Although it probably would be nice to see that jerk get in trouble for his crimes.

Simmons didn't get as overprotective and violent as Grif did. He'd stick to just telling the police. He wouldn't do anything crazy.

* * *

Grif had acquired a packet of peanut M&Ms from one of the vending machines, and was heading back. He moved slowly. He didn't want to go back up there. Looking at Sister... at that broken arm, at those bruises, at those missing teeth... It would just remind him that he'd failed to protect her. He'd tried his best to protect her since she was four years old, back when they still lived in Hawaii. He remembered the first time he'd come to her rescue clearly. One of the local kids had stolen her Barbie doll and run off with it. Grif had chased down that fucker, beat him up and gotten the doll back. He'd done what he could that day, and every day since. He'd protected her, tried to be there for her when their mother couldn't be. When their mother had left for good, Grif had practically become a surrogate parent. He'd taken care of Sister as well as he could.

But that didn't matter now. He couldn't protect her when she needed it most. He had been messing around with Simmons as she had been getting beaten to a pulp by some fucking douchebag. He was fucking useless...

Grif stopped outside the ward before sitting down in one of the chairs they had out there and resting his face in his hands. How could he go in there again? How could he face her after failing that badly?

"Hey. You alright?"

"Fuck off, Simmons," Grif growled. "I'm not in the mood for your shit."

He'd failed to protect Sister because he'd been messing around with Simmons. He'd failed Sister once he got involved with Simmons. Part of him really wanted to punch Simmons in the face right then.

"Look. I got Sister to tell me who hurt her. I'm gonna report it to the police."

"The fuck good will that do?!" Grif stood up, grabbed Simmons by the front of his shirt. "You're gonna go to the police? They're more fucking useless than I am! They'll go 'what proof do you have?' And even though all the proof we need is right there in that hospital bunk... they'll say it's not good enough. Fuck the police! They aren't going to do shit for this!"

"Then... What were you planning on doing?"

"I'm gonna find that motherfucker and I'm going to fucking slit his throat!" Grif drew a thumb across his own neck. "He is fucking dead. No-one hurts my sister. No-one."

"Are you crazy?" Simmons hissed, trying to keep his voice down. "You'll get into so much shit."

"I don't care, he is not getting away with this. If you won't tell me who he is, I will go down to that club and find him myself."

"So, there's no way to talk you out of this?"

"No. There isn't."

Simmons was silent for a few moments. Then he said, "You'll need to track him down. You'll need a proper plan if you don't want to get caught. I guess if we were really careful..."

"Wait, wait, wait. The fuck do you mean 'we?'"

"Did you think I'd let you do something this insane by yourself? You'd mess up somehow, get caught. I did promise Sister I wouldn't tell you who hurt her, but... If you insist on going through with this, I'm going to help." Simmons glanced towards the ward. "Besides. You're not the only one pissed off about this." Simmons looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. "What are you gaping at?"

"You're actually serious."

"I don't think I could be more serious. Definitely not monkeying about with this."

"Monkeying about? Who says that?"

"Lots of people do! Just not anyone you'd know."

* * *

"Apples! No, no, no, no! Bad kitty!"

Caboose stared up at the tree, and at the orange cat who was sitting in the branches. Looking down at him with a very unconcerned expression.

"You cannot get down from there! Why do you keep climbing up?" Caboose frowned, before hurrying to the tree trunk and starting to clamber up.

A year and a half after the accident, Caboose still hadn't recovered his smarts. Sheila, who he still got to visit sometimes, said that he probably never would. But he could speak again, and sort of understand people. Sometimes he could not understand if he was super sleepy, or if they talked too fast. But he could usually understand the basic stuff.

He was also back to how strong he'd been before the accident. Maybe even stronger. He had not been able to think very good, and he was not able to be very helpful because of it. So he had decided that if he could not think good, he would be able to do things that required being strong and no thinking. Like carrying wood for Papa. He had worked hard to make sure he was strong again. He could not do little things so well anymore, like moving his fingers quickly, but he could do the important things. Like climbing up trees to get silly cats who kept climbing up there.

Caboose clambered halfway up the tree until he was on the same branch as Apples.

"Come here, Apples! Come on!" Caboose reached out to pick the cat up, but she walked out of reach to further near the end of the branch. "No, no, no, no, no, no! Bad kitty!" Caboose edged further along the branch. Apples stared at him curiously, waving her tail slowly. Caboose was getting near when he heard a shriek.

"Mikey, what are you doing?!" Mama screamed. "Get down from there before you hurt yourself!"

Caboose wondered why he would be so stupid as to hurt himself. Then he looked down and realised just how high he was. Maybe that was why.

"I am fine! I am just getting Apples!" Caboose finally reached her and picked her up. Unfortunately, to do this he had to let go of the branch, which immediately caused him to lose his balance and fall out the tree.

The ground was very hard and it hurt.

"Ow," Caboose groaned.

He heard Mama running towards him. She could run nowadays because, for probably the first time in many, many years, she was not at all pregnant. She had stopped having kids since she gave birth to twins a couple of months after the accident. Maybe she thought nineteen children was enough. Maybe she did not want to have to run after even more children, as well as Caboose's younger sisters and Caboose himself. She watched Caboose very closely most of the time, making sure he was not doing anything she thought stupid. Always there. Caboose was not even allowed to leave the house without her, because whenever he did she got scared that he would hurt himself.

"Mikey! Are you okay? Please say you're alright!"

Every injury was treated like that. It was like she thought he was made of glass sometimes, even though he was very strong and had told her this a lot.

"I am fine. And so is Apples. See?"

Apples purred happily and rubbed up against Caboose before climbing off him and padding off to have a nap in the shade.

"Never do that again! Never! You're going to get hurt!" Mama scolded. "Now back inside, go on."

Caboose pouted and walked back towards the house. Mama could be bossy sometimes. But that was okay. She was smarter than him, she knew what was best.

* * *

That night was noisy. Nights were always noisy, when everyone who still lived at home was crammed into the main room. All of Caboose's older sisters had moved out, but there was still nine younger sisters, plus Mama and Papa. It was probably a good thing his older sisters had moved out, because they could not fit nineteen kids. Plus his oldest sisters had families, too. His older sister was actually a grandmother by now. They had a very large family.

At the moment, Caboose was stuck under a pile of cushions. Two of his sisters had decided to build a fort, and he was stuck underneath it because he'd been asleep at the time. That was probably silly of him.

Eventually, Caboose had to move because his legs had gone to sleep without him (his sisters got annoyed at him for disrupting the fort) and he went into the kitchen instead. Mama and his oldest younger sister, Abby, were both dishing up dinner.

"Can I help?" Caboose asked. His mother looked nervous all of a sudden. Caboose wondered why.

"No, that's okay. Go sit in the lounge room, dear. Don't do anything too energetic!"

"But it is very stuffy in there..." Caboose started. Before he could continue, a plate slipped out of Abby's hands. She was kind of clumsy sometimes.

"I got it!" both Caboose and Abby yelled, both jumping forward for the plate.

Caboose had meant to grab the plate. Instead, he had grabbed Abby's arm and crashed into her. All of a sudden, there was a shattering noise as the plate hit the ground, but that was drowned out by Abby screaming and jerking back from Caboose, holding her arm.

"Ow, ow, ow! My arm!" she sobbed. Mama looked terrified.

"What happened? Abby, what happened? Did... Did I do something? I am sorry, I am very sorry," Caboose babbled. "I... I did not mean to do that, I meant to grab the plate... Can I help? Please, I'm sorry, can I help?"

"Michael, stay back!" Mama shouted, moving between him and Abby. "Oh god, I think it's broken. Hang on, dear, we'll take you to the hospital..."

"Can I help?" Caboose asked again weakly.

"You've done enough!" Mama screamed. "Stay out of the way!" After a moment, she realised what she had said. "I'm sorry, Mikey, but... Please, stay out of the way!"

* * *

Stay out of the way. Stay out of the way.

Caboose was staying out of the way. That was why he had climbed into the attic. That was out of the way. He could hear his sisters downstairs. Papa had taken Abby to the hospital, and Mama was still finishing up dinner. Caboose sat between a couple of boxes of Bailey's old things, stuff she had not taken with her when she moved.

_I hurt Abby... I hurt her... And Mama... She was so mad, she yelled and I hurt Abby... I hurt her, I hurt her, I hurt her..._

As these thoughts cycled around his head, he heard a meow. Apples had followed him into the attic, and had curled up next to him. Caboose stroked Apples gently.

"You are not shouting at me. Are you, Apples? You did not shout at me for getting you out of the tree. Or trying to help. It was an accident, I did not mean to hurt her..."

_I hurt her but I did not mean it. Mama was mad, she was yelling. She was yelling, but I was just trying to help... Just trying, she should not have been yelling..._

_Why were they so mad at me? They should not have been, they should not have been..._

He was angry. The anger that always came very quickly was there, and he was mad and he didn't notice that the hand that had been patting Apples had clenched and gotten very tight...

_Why were they mad? Why were they mad? They should not have been! It was an accident! Why did they not listen? It was an accident!_

There was a crunch. It snapped Caboose out of his furious thoughts. He looked down at Apples, suddenly realising how tightly he was holding the cat.

Apples wasn't moving.

"...Apples?"

Nothing. Caboose removed his hand. There was red liquid on them. Cat blood. Caboose looked beyond it, saw what had happened to Apples.

"Apples? Come on, you are okay. Apples, come on! Get up! Get up!" Caboose pleaded. "I am sorry, I did not mean it! Please get up, please!"

Apples did not get up.

"Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no," Caboose said quickly. "Oh no. I... I killed Apples, oh no... Apples, please move, I am sorry!"

"Mikey!" a voice called from below. Mama.

"I am not doing anything!" Caboose yelled in a panic.

"Uh, dear? It's dinnertime."

"I... I... I am not hungry!"

"Are you sure?"

"Y-yes."

"I'll... I'll save a plate for you, okay? I'll come and check on you once I've finished dishing up the food, okay?"

_Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no..._

"That... That is okay, I am going to bed! I am tired!" Caboose yelled.

"Um... I'll still check on you, make sure you're okay. Just give me a few minutes."

_Mama is going to be mad. I killed Apples, I killed Apples, why did I do that?! Why why why why? Mama is going to be mad, everyone is going to be mad..._

Caboose stared down at his own hands before wiping them off on one of the sheets that was covering an old lawnmower that Papa never threw out. Panic was taking over, he didn't know what to do, he had no idea...

He listened to the first impulse that came to mind. He ran. He ran downstairs until he saw a window, and then he climbed out of it.

And then he just kept running.

* * *

Caboose could run for a very long time. He might have run for hours. When he stopped, he had absolutely no idea where he was. He didn't recognise the street, he couldn't even read signs that would tell him where he was. He had no clue. He was completely and utterly lost. He kept walking until he found a tiny little park. Not so much a park as a tiny patch of grass with one tree. He flopped down under the tree, looking upwards. It was dark. It was getting darker. He looked down at his own hands. There was still traces of blood on them. Tears started welling up in his eyes.

_What am I going to do?_

Caboose curled up under the tree and just started crying. He'd never cried so hard. He'd never felt so terrible, not even the accident had made him this unhappy...

He couldn't go home, not after that. He had no idea where he was, he had no idea where he could go. He'd run off without money or clothes or... or anything... He was stuck. Lost. No idea what to do or where to go. On top of that, he had done some very bad things, he had hurt Abby and he had... had killed Apples. He hadn't meant it, but it didn't matter, he'd still done it...

Of course, one can only cry for so long. It took a long time, but eventually Caboose was reduced to simply sniffing and wiping his eyes. Sometimes crying a lot made him feel better. This was not one of those times.

He did not know where to go. Home? No. To one of his sister's houses? He didn't even know where most of them lived, and they would hear what he had done from Mama, and Mama would find him there. To Dad's house? No. He was not going there as long as he had another choice, and he had barely seen his dad since yelling at him a year and a half ago. But he couldn't think of another choice, he didn't have anyone outside of his family and... and...

Sheila! Sheila! He could go to Sheila! She was a nice lady, she would understand, she wouldn't hate him for what he had done! He could find her! He could go to her! Sheila would help him!

But he still had no idea how to get there. He did not know the way. But he knew she worked at the hospital. He would go to the hospital. And he did not know the way, but in the movies people did that thing where they got lifts and people took them to places. Hitchhiking! He could do that!

Caboose climbed to his feet and started walking again. He would find Sheila. And then everything would be okay.

* * *

"Come on, gimme the controller! It's my turn! I want to play! We can play Little Big Planet!" Donut whined, trying to grab the controller from Maine, who was playing a very violent first-person shooter. Maine held it out of his grip and snarled. "Come on, please?"

Another growl.

"Pleeeeeease? We can both play! I don't want to play shooters anymore. They're not as fun! I want to dress up the little sack person! There was this adorable little outfit I just found..."

Maine shook his head before blowing someone's head off in the game.

"You are such a jerk sometimes." Donut flopped back on the sofa. "Okay, but I got dibs on the TV remote tonight."

Maine snarled.

"Only fair!" Donut pulled a face. "You hog the games, I'm gonna hog the remote. So there! Now... Now I'm going to make coffee, you want one?"

The growl sounded like an agreement.

"Okie doke."

Donut returned with very sugary coffee a few minutes later. He placed one in front of Maine before taking a sip from his own lightish-red cup.

"You play this game so violently," Donut said, watching. He preferred games that had some sort of interior design element to them, but the shooter did sort of look like fun. Although Maine always seemed to go for the most fancy, bloody way of killing them. It was never just a shot to the chest. It always had to be a shotgun to the back of the head. Or a knife in the face. "Okay, the knife-face death was kind of cool." Maine replied with a growl. "Look, if you let me play my games, then I'll let you watch that bloody serial killer show. As long as I get to watch the renovation show first." Maine still shook his head. "Jerk."

Despite his protesting, Maine had lasted longer than any other roommate. All the others left quickly, either because of the lace or because they got uncomfortable living with a very flamboyantly gay man. Maine didn't seem to care about either.

The phone rang.

"Oh, that's probably for me. It always seems to be. Doesn't anyone ever call you? Well, you do only speak in growls..." Donut walked into the kitchen again, picked up the phone. "Aloha?"

"Crumbcake!"

"Hi, Mama! How's it going?" Donut asked. When Mama Liz didn't immediately respond with 'awesome,' he got worried. "Is something wrong?"

"Um. Yes. It's about Mama Julie."

"What happened?"

"Uh. It's, um... Uh..." Mama Liz stopped talking again, and her little intake of breath sounded... wet. That really made him worry. "It's, uh... I haven't been telling you something..."

"What? What? What's going on?!"

"See, Mama Julie... she's been sick for a while. She's... There's something wrong with her liver. Has been for a while. I've been hiding it, Mama Julie was insistent that you didn't find out about it. But... Well, she's entered a rough patch, and... and..."

"Okay, a rough patch. Sure. But she'll be fine, right? Come on, Mama... She'll be fine. It's Mama Julie, she's tough! She's the tough one! She'll be okay, right?"

"I... There's treatments avaliable. But there's no complete cure. She might last years, but she might only last a few weeks if this treatment doesn't take..."

Most of the world faded away at that moment. All Donut could hear was Mama Liz, and all he could feel was a strange numbness.

"No," he said bluntly. "No, that... No."

"I just... Do you think you could come back home for a bit? She'd... She'd like to see you. Just in case... In case something goes wrong..."

"I..." Donut's mouth had gone dry. He knew he was supposed to say yes. He knew what he was supposed to do. But what came out of his mouth was, "I don't think I can. I can't take this time off work."

"Well... Can you try to get them to give you some time off? Please? Please, Crumbcake?"

"Um... Uh... I don't think... I... No, I... Not enough people working... Not enough... I have to go," Donut quickly slammed down the phone before Mama Liz could say anything.

This isn't happening. This isn't. I'm dreaming. It's a bad dream. It's not as bad as Mama Liz said. She was being a drama queen. Everything is fine. Tip-top fine.

Donut stared around frantically. As if there'd be something on those shelves that would fix everything. His eyes landed on a packet of chocolate cake mix.

_Cake. Cake can fix any problem! Cake can fix any problem!_

Donut quickly grabbed the cake mix and went to work cooking. Cake could fix anything. As as long as he was cooking, he wouldn't have to think. He wouldn't have to consider the possibility of Mama Julie dying.


	82. Chapter 76: Ouch

**Chapter Seventy-Six: Ouch**

O'Malley glared at the wall of his solitary cell. He hated those walls. If he ever got out of this prison, he would consider coming back just to burn the place down. The idea of burning the prison down did fill him with some joy, although it was largely overwhelmed by the anger at the walls. As well as the pounding headache that was going through his mind. It just got worse and worse every hour. So did the shaking. He hadn't been given his usual medication during the last day and the headache and nausea occurred and made it even harder to concentrate, and his hands started shaking so badly that even just eating was near impossible.

O'Malley despised the medication that Doc had kept him on. But now, amongst the throbbing pain in his head, there was a small voice muttering that he really needed those colourful pieces of plastic. He needed them right now. But they had not even been showing up with his food during the last day. Perhaps the new doctor had realised he didn't need them or that they were the wrong medicine for someone like him and had discontinued it, or maybe he didn't even know O'Malley needed them.

_I don't need it. I don't need them. I don't._

And yet the little voice in the back of his head was going, _Need them. Need them right now. Need them, I need them..._

O'Malley punched the wall furiously. The impact and burst of pain that came from his hand (which still bore scrapes from when he had punched the wall after Doc left) did distract him momentarily from his headache. But only momentarily.

_I don't need that medication. My body just thinks it does. But I don't. It'll go away. There is no way I could be addicted to those little candy-like pills... I'm not addicted to that form of mind control..._

O'Malley flopped back onto the cot, scowling. It was Doc's fault. All Doc's fault. When Doc came back... Oh, he was going to suffer. Going to suffer for all the crap he'd put O'Malley through. Suffer for destroying his hands and clouding his head. Suffer for abandoning him in this hellhole. Doc would learn not to do it again.

* * *

Caboose had decided that Donut must have been seeing things. He did not smile like O'Malley. O'Malley was mean and creepy and he hurt people for no reason except that it was fun. Caboose did not do that. He only hurt bad people. Like Miller and Lopez. They had deserved it, so that was not a bad thing. Donut was just confused.

Caboose stared at one of the mirrors in the bathroom. Well, mirror wasn't the right word. It was just a very shiny piece of metal. But they were close to mirrors. Caboose could hear the hiss of the showers in the next room, and people kept passing by. A guard stood in the corner, keeping an eye out.

Caboose squinted at his reflection, and then tried smiling. The smile was nothing like O'Malley's one. O'Malley's one was wider, and it had more teeth. Even if Caboose tried pulling the sides of his mouth up, he still couldn't smile like that.

Of course he couldn't. He wasn't like O'Malley. That was just a silly idea. Donut must have hit his head when O'Malley and Lopez hurt him.

There was some footsteps moving behind Caboose, and he saw Lopez's reflection behind him. Caboose frowned, not turning around. Only watching him in the reflection. He saw Lopez watching him warily as he went past, making his way towards the shower room. Caboose clenched his fists together, resisting the urge to finish strangling the mean man. He promised Donut he would not hurt Lopez at the moment, and he could not do that with the guard watching anyway.

But he wouldn't leave Lopez to walk around and do bad things. He would stop Lopez. Not now, but soon. Soon. And then things would be good again.

Caboose smiled at the thought. And then as soon as he caught sight of that smile in the mirror he jumped back, hand clasped over his mouth.

That smile had been exactly like O'Malley's evil grin. Exactly like it.

Caboose couldn't do the smile again. He tried, but at the same time he was very afraid that he would manage it.

_I am not like O'Malley. Not at all. O'Malley is a mean, mean man. I am not. But... that was a very scary smile. Donut was not seeing things. Unless I am seeing things, too._

Caboose couldn't remember feeling so scared of his reflection since that time he'd thought he was staring at a ghost, back in the hospital.

Maybe reflections were just evil. Yeah, that had to be it.

* * *

Donut still couldn't do anything like getting up, but with the painkillers he could at least sit up without being in horrible pain. He was actually able to eat by himself now. He didn't realise it was possible to miss the prison food, but it was better than being fed with an IV.

Still kind of hard to keep his hand steady enough. He could only use his left hand to eat, as the other one was still encased in a cast.

Walter was rifling through the notes on medication, occasionally muttering about the inaccuracies.

"That medication is outdated... That one was banned for causing seizures, how was he still getting it? How is this prison still standing?" he murmured.

Donut was much more focused on trying not to drop his spoon. He didn't even look up when there was a knock at the door, and a high-pitched voice.

"I require assistance!" the voice shouted.

"Assistance? Is it a serious injury?" Walter asked.

There was a pause. "Uh, yes. Very serious."

Walter sighed, climbed to his feet before hurrying over to the door and opening it. Donut looked up to see the crazy religious guy who was always talking to the flag. The one who continuously stole his clothes, or so Donut believed. Hadn't been able to catch him at it yet... The zealot was holding his jacket to his arm, like a bandage.

"One of the blue demons has attacked and thrown out the balance."

"Blue demons? I'm not even going to ask... Okay, come in," Walter said. "Sit down on the cot."

"Yes." The Red Zealot hurried across the room, and Walter closed the door. "You are the new doctor?"

"Doctor Walter Henderson, yes. Can I see the injury?"

The Red Zealot smiled brightly. "Have you seen blood yet? Have you witnessed the corruption of this purgatory?"

"Well... I re-did some stitches. I saw blood during that. What purgatory?"

"This purgatory. Of which His Holy Flappiness watches over."

"He's going to talk like this for a while," Donut warned Walter. "He's kinda weird. Got this cult thing going on where they worship the Red flag."

"Hm. That's kind of odd."

"His Holy Flappiness requires his followers to correct the imbalances to this purgatory."

"Uh, yes. Can I see the injury now?"

The Red Zealot smiled wider and stepped forward as he started to unravel the jacket. "I am here to cure the imbalance. Under the all-seeing eyes of our fabric god."

The zealot reached into his jacket. And he pulled out the sharpest shiv that Donut had ever seen. Donut's eyes widened and Walter stepped back.

"Whoa, put that down. I know you're, um, upset about the... whoever the 'blue demons' are. But calm down, alright?"

The Red Zealot did not appear to hear him.

"We must appease them and buy our ascension with blood." The Zealot's voice got louder as he progressed. He stepped forward. "We must have sacrifice!"

"What the hell?" Donut tried to move out of the cot, but the pain... Walter had a similar idea. He quickly moved away from the Zealot before making a run for the door. However, when he tried to open the door he couldn't.

"No, no."

"My Red brothers have barred the door. There is no escape." The Red Zealot lifted the shiv and pointed it. "Pure one! It is your duty to receive this honour! You shall be blessed by the Flag as we decorate his shiny pole with your innards!"

"No, no, no, come on, this is crazy—"

"You're insane! What are you thinking?!" Donut yelled, trying to move off the cot. He managed to roll off it, only to hit the ground with his bad arm and experience heavy pain, even with the painkillers. As he did this, the Red Zealot leapt forward and thrust the shiv into Walter's stomach.

Walter only made a small gasp of pain, but his face portrayed unimaginable agony. The Red Zealot gripped Walter's shoulder tightly before starting to slowly drag the shiv across his stomach, occasionally jerking the shiv whenever he met resistance. Donut froze completely. He couldn't move, and he couldn't look away. He could only stare, horrified.

"Let his Holy Flappiness bask in his crimson sacrifice! And let us bask in his divine light!" the zealot screeched, his face stretched into a joyous smile.

The scent of blood was much stronger than anything Donut had ever smelt. Donut realised with a new surge of horror and nausea that the Red Zealot wasn't merely stabbing the man. He was actually disemboweling him, inch by agonizing inch. Walter's eyes were bulging, and blood trickled out of his mouth. Donut attempted to shout, to do something, anything, but his voice caught in his throat.

"Salvation through blood!" the Red Zealot screamed.

"Salvation through blood!" some voices from the outside, the ones barring the door, echoed back.

With those voices yelling for blood, the Red Zealot finally jerked the shiv out of Walter. Blood gushed. Walter fell to the ground. It would have been horrifying enough if he'd been dead by then. But he wasn't. Eyes still bulging, he scrabbled at his stomach, perhaps in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his guts from spilling. Flopping around in his own blood, similar in a sick, twisted way to a fish out of water. And even amongst the blood and the shouts of those standing outside, the Red Zealot stood there with his face tilted up slightly, blood coating his hands. Eyes closed, and an expression of pure bliss on his face.

"I have reached the top of the mountain! I can feel the divine light reflecting off the holy flagpole!"

Donut covered his mouth, back pressed hard against the cot. The smell was nothing like he had ever felt before, thicker and stronger and overpowering his senses, even from the other side of the room. Combined with the sight of Walter, it was too much... Donut felt the bile rising in his throat.

He was finally able to avert his eyes as he threw up what little he'd managed to eat beforehand. When his eyes finally opened again, he saw that the Red Zealot was watching him. Head tilted, looking confused.

"My Red brother... do you look upon the sacrifice with disgust?" he asked. He stepped forward, shiv still in his hand. "Do you not possess the level of enlightenment that the Flag has blessed his most treasured followers with?" He stepped forward again.

There was nowhere for Donut to go. He wanted to run, but he couldn't. Too much pain, his legs wouldn't freaking work.

"Have you not accepted the flag as your savior?"

"Y-y-you're fucking insane! You... you did that because of a piece of crappy fabric?!" Donut screamed. "You're insane! Insane!"

"You would commit such sacrilege? You, the one who cleanses fabric more throughly than anyone in this purgatory?" That confused tone was still there. Like he just didn't understand why anyone would object to what they'd done.

A shout came from outside the door.

"The gatekeepers! They are upon us!" one yelled. "Run!"

Donut could hear footsteps scattering, running away from the infirmary. A few moments later, Wash shoved open the door. He was followed by North.

"Why were they all gathering outside the do—" North came to a halt as he saw Walter, who was only twitching at this point. He opened and shut his mouth a couple of times silently, before saying, "That... is different."

Wash looked mildly nauseated. His eyes moved from Walter's twitching body over to the Red Zealot, and he stepped forward.

"Drop the weapon," Wash said quietly.

"I will not drop the sacrificial knife! It shall not be allowed to fall into the hands of the gatekeepers or those who are not of the most holy colo—" The Red Zealot was interrupted by Wash pulling out the pepper spray and squirting it in his face. What had been the start of another fanatical rant devolved into a scream and some arm flailing as he covered his eyes. This did cause him to drop the shiv.

While the Red Zealot had been distracted, North had made his way over to Walter. Nose scrunched up, presumably to block out the smell, he was checking Walter's pulse. Although it looked pointless.

"He still has a pulse, but... he isn't going to last long enough for an ambulance," North muttered. "Not a chance."

"Might be for the best. That's something you don't want to live through," Wash said. He restrained the screeching, flailing zealot's arms and started dragging him towards the door. "I'll alert Sarge after I drop this guy in solitary."

"Yeah. You do that." As Wash left, Zealot in tow, North finally looked away from Walter and at Donut. "Right, sorry! Hang on, I'll just..." North stepped over Walter, made his way over to Donut and picked him up carefully, placing him back on the bed. "Sorry about that."

Donut meant to tell North it wasn't a problem, but all that came out was a 'hurrk' noise, followed by him dry heaving. A few strings of vomit came up, but that was all.

"You alright? Donut?"

Donut didn't reply. North patted him on the back gently.

"Donut. I need to know why this happened. I know it's hard to talk about... or look at... or smell, for that matter. But... I need to know, alright?"

"I... I don't know," Donut said shakily. "The crazy little religious guy just came in and spouted something about correcting some kind of balance, and they were yelling about salvation through blood..."

North nodded, rubbing his back in an oddly reminiscent way to what Mama Liz would sometimes do when Donut was ill. It was comforting. "Okay. Well... you can't stay up here. Once someone else gets here I'll help them take you down to your cell. You can stay there until we've cleaned this all up."

Donut spent the time until then covering his eyes and nose as well as he could, so he didn't have to see and smell the mess that the Red Zealot had made of Walter.


	83. Chapter 77: Old Hands

**Chapter Seventy-Seven: Old Hands**

Being back in his regular cell would have felt good if it weren't for the fact that Donut was there because the infirmary floor was covered with enough blood to dye the floor a nasty reddish-brown colour. Or the fact that Donut was stuck on his cot. Being stuck on a cot in the infirmary was bad enough, but being stuck like that in his cell, with people walking past regularly... He was pretty much a sitting duck if anything else happened.

Being a sitting duck really, really didn't feel good at the moment.

Donut tapped the cot with the fingers on his working hand nervously. He did his best to think about other things, but inevitably they returned back to the infirmary and... and then the sight of the zealot dragging a shiv through Walter's stomach returned to his mind, clear as if it was happening in front of him right now.

_No, no, think about something else. Like, um, like... finding lace for your cell. I still haven't done that. This place really could use some decorating. I'm kind of sick of grey walls. I mean, the walls in most of the rooms are grey, except for the infirma—shit, I'm thinking about it again. Stop it!_

"The hell are you doing back here already?"

Donut looked up to see Tucker standing in the doorway. Normally, he didn't particularly like to hang around Tucker. Too much hate there. Also, Tucker talked about girls he'd picked up far too much. It was kind of gross sometimes. But at the moment, Donut was just glad to see someone.

"Hey, Tucker. You want to hang out here?"

"Hell no."

"Please?"

"Why would I want to? You're a jerk."

"No, you are."

"Great comeback. Go find Caboose, if you want someone to hang around with. Or Church, or Grif and Simmons... hell, find anyone. They all like you, for some reason."

"I can't go find anyone. I'm stuck here. Can't move without loads of pain. The, uh... the infirmary is... not working at the moment," Donut mumbled.

"Not working? How can a room not work?"

"I... really don't want to talk about it. Look, I don't like you either. But I really don't want to be left alone right now. I'm... I'm kinda scared."

Tucker crossed his arms, frowning. "So, you're scared because you can't move. Right?"

"That's part of it, yeah."

"You can't move at all?"

"I can move one of my arms. And sort of sit up sometimes. But that's it."

"Hm. I'll be right back." Tucker left down the walkway. There was a few minutes of nothing, long enough for Donut to suspect that Tucker had just said he'd be back to stop Donut from annoying him. But after a while, Tucker came back.

"Will this help?" He held up a shiv. Donut's immediate reaction was to recoil.

"Why do you have a shiv?!" he blurted. Tucker raised an eyebrow.

"Why wouldn't I? I'm interested in living long enough to get out of here, alright? Got it when Caboose was being creepy around me. In case something really shit happens, you know? I haven't stabbed anyone with it yet."

"Yet?"

"Well, who knows what'll happen later. Anyway." Tucker walked to Donut, held the screwdriver out to him. "You want it or what? This way you won't be completely defenseless if something happens."

Donut eyed it warily. The last time he'd held a weapon... That had been a knife. And that had landed him in here.

He didn't want to take another weapon. Especially not like what the Red Zealot had used, but a sharp shiv was still better than what O'Malley used...

The memory of O'Malley standing over him, asking him which ear he'd prefer to keep, came rushing back into his head. The memory of O'Malley trying to hack off his ear... Screwdrivers were for stabbing, not cutting... It had been slow, ages of hacking... chop chop chop... and the pain oh god... a shiv would have been much faster...

Walter was proof of that.

Donut edged away as much as he could from the shiv that Tucker was holding out. He didn't want to take it, but...

"So, you don't want it?"

But if something did happen... If it was kill or be killed... Then Donut would stand a better chance if he had something other than his fists.

Donut reached out and took the shiv from Tucker. He looked at it for a moment before looking back up at Tucker.

"Why are you giving me this? You hate me."

Tucker shrugged before grinning. "True, that." He turned around, started to walk out. He stopped in the doorway. "By the way, I'll tell Church you're in here. Figure he'd want to know."

"Why would—"

"Aw, don't play dumb," Tucker muttered before leaving. Donut frowned, before looking back down at the shiv. He looked over it for a few moments before putting it under his pillow.

Even with a weapon on hand, he didn't feel any less scared. If anything, it made him feel worse.

* * *

Sarge was the only one in the room that didn't seem disturbed by the sight of Walter's corpse. Even Flowers, for all his usual cheerfulness, looked incredibly serious. But Sarge looked more annoyed than anything.

"Dangnammit, I just hired this guy. He was shaping up to be a good member of the staff. And then he had to go and get his guts removed by a religious man. Henderson, you inconsiderate slacker," Sarge said, directing his comments at the corpse. "Can't believe one of my own Reds would do this."

"Maybe you should take down the flag," Wash said flatly. He stood in the corner, arms crossed. "From what North said, it sounded like this was some kind of disturbing sacrifice to your flag. Take it down and they won't have anything to worship."

"Take down the Red flag?!" Sarge looked absolutely scandalized by the thought. "Son, would you take down the American flag just because some hippy used it to smoke weed?"

"...What."

"Of course you wouldn't! No, no, the flag stays."

Wash sighed. "Alright, fine."

Sarge frowned down at the body. Not only was it inconsiderate for Walter to get killed after only a day of duty, but it was also raising some awkward questions with the police. For instance, questions about how an inmate could get the materials needed for a shiv like that. Didn't help that they'd been told about Walter before Sarge himself, and had walked into his office with no forewarning at all. And thus had caught him and Flowers in the middle of a chess game.

They were being very inquisitive. They had checked out the scene at the infirmary, but now they were waiting back in Sarge's office to ask more questions. It was going to be tricky to answer them. Sarge was running this place brilliantly, sure. But try explaining that to the police.

North had pulled his shirt collar up over his mouth to try and block out the smell as he started mopping up the massive puddle. "Someone needs to move him," he mumbled, gesturing at Walter.

"Not it," was the immediate response of the other three.

"Guys, come on. I'm already mopping up."

"Now, you know the two most important methods of deciding things in this place," Flowers said patiently. "Those two methods are 'dibs' and 'not it.' You have to stick by those rules."

"Right, right. Sorry, sir."

"We need a temporary infirmary," Flowers pondered, tapping his fingers against his chin. "Do we have any spare rooms?"

"There's one around somewhere. Not quite sure where," Sarge said. "On the... left side of the prison somewhere. Washington! You're back to being the temporary doctor, and your first job as that is to find an empty room. Get to it!"

"Permission to switch jobs with North? Because I would rather clean up corpses than be the doctor again," Wash said dryly.

"Permission denied."

"Oh, great..."

* * *

"Major Cinnamon Bun! I brought you foods!" Caboose held out some orange juice and a roll with some of the mystery meat on it. "I could not carry it all without a tray. But I think this is good."

"Uh, thanks. But I'm... I'm not really hungry," Donut said, shaking his head. "No appetite. You can eat it."

"Are you okay?"

"Apart from the same injuries as before, I'm fine." Physically, anyway. Donut's hands kept returning to the shiv. He was currently keeping it under the blankets, so it was in reach but so he didn't have to explain to Caboose why he was carrying it around. Donut kept turning it over in his working hand, thinking. He didn't want to think about it... didn't want to think about the attacks and murders... But he couldn't help it.

He wished Caboose would start one of his usual nonsensical conversations, so that there would be some kind of distraction. But Caboose was quiet. He kept poking at the sides of his face, tugging at the sides of his mouth. He looked troubled about something.

"You alright, Caboose?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm... I'm fine."

Donut nodded and returned to staring down at his sheets.

* * *

"That is disgusting," Church remarked, as he prodded his dinner around on his plate. Tucker had gone looking around the infirmary to try and figure out why it was 'out of order.' Turned out he only needed to get a glance to figure it out.

"I know, right? Absolutely gross." Tucker gestured with his spoon. "Smells pretty gross, too. I mean, just blood is one thing. But disembowelment smells a lot worse. Like someone took a dump on a bag of rotten meat."

"Dude, not while I'm eating," Grif complained, before returning to his food.

Honestly, Tucker was kind of disappointed that his graphic explanation of what was up there had done little to disturb the others. He'd put as much effort into the dramatic explanation as possible, and what did he get? Church simply saying it was gross, Grif still continuing to eat despite his complaint, and Simmons had barely blinked an eyelid. Tucker was sure Caboose wouldn't have really reacted to the story, either, had he been present at the table. Though more because he had no idea what the word 'disembowel' meant.

"You guys are no fun," Tucker groaned, before returning to his food. "I put effort into that. Fucking effort. Couldn't you at least give one gasp of horror? Come on."

"I think you need something else to do with your time, seriously," Church muttered. Tucker pulled a face before looking around the cafeteria.

He was just looking around for anyone who might be willing to swap portions of their meal for other, nicer portions. Instead, his stomach dropped a little, because there was a familiar face staring back at him. One that he hadn't seen in a couple of years, sure. But Tucker still recognised him. Recognised the face. More than that, recognised the hands. Hands which were now crippled, the fingers deformed and useless. But which had once been used to beat Tucker so throughly that he'd never quite healed from it.

Tucker nudged Church in the back.

"What, Tucker?"

"Miller. He's back."


	84. Chapter 78: Intuition

**Chapter Seventy-Eight: Intuition**

Perhaps it was the anger at being trapped in various rooms that was filling Donut at the moment, but at some point during his stream of room-hating thoughts, he started thinking about the outside.

"Hey, Caboose?"

"Yes?"

"What do you miss the most about being outside?"

"I was outside earlier today. I like it when it is sunny."

"No, I meant outside the walls. Outside the prison."

"Oh. Out there?"

"Yeah."

"That is a very hard one."

"I know, right? There's a lot of things I miss. Kind of hard to choose just one thing," Donut admitted. "I mean, the first thing I'd probably do if I got let out was to find some nice food and a bed that doesn't feel lumpy."

"No, that is not why it is difficult," Caboose said quickly. "It is hard because I would not want to go back out there."

"Huh? Really?"

"Yes."

Donut stared at Caboose incredulously. "You seriously wouldn't want to go out there? Seriously? You like being in this box?"

"It is not a box, Corporal Cookie. It is a building."

"But. It's a prison!"

"Well, yes... But I like it here. Most of the time." Caboose frowned. "I do not like it when the mean people do bad things. Like O'Malley and Mr. Spaniel. But besides that, it is a lot less scary than... than out there."

"You have got to be kidding. It's not scary out there."

"Yes, it is. It is big and I get lost and there was lots of mean, shouty people. And I always ended up hungry because I could not understand the can opener and the stove hurt me. Also, there are boogeymen in the closet." Caboose lowered his voice to a whisper. "There was also boogeymen in the prison, but Church told me the guards chased them out so I do not have to be scared of going in the laundry closet anymore."

"You don't miss anything? What about the people out there?"

"Sheila is out there. But she visits me, so I still see her here. And Church is in here. So are you, Captain Buttercrust. And those are all the people who still like me."

"Don't you have, like, seventeen sisters? I thought your family was huge, not even one of them comes to see you?"

"They do not want to. I told you that."

"Because you killed some people?"

"I did not."

"Okay, because the people who arrested you thought you did?"

"Yeah, I... I think so." Caboose's face was scrunched up in his 'thinking-harder-than-his-brain-usually-allows' expression. "I think Papa was confused, though. He said that something about me dying in a car accident. Which is silly. I did not die. I just hit my head really hard. I think I would remember if I died."

"What about your mother?"

Caboose's eyes widened a little and he shook his head. "I am not allowed to remember. Church told me not to. He said it made me too sad."

"Oh. ...I guess that's fine. I know I wouldn't want to remember the stuff with my roomie. Jerkface got me landed in here..." Donut sighed. "You know... If you'd asked me six years ago what I'd be doing right now? Being locked in prison, covered in bandages with only one ear and terrified that I'm going to get disemboweled by a man who worships a flag, would probably have been pretty low on the list. I think that would have even been below painting my apartment pea-soup green and going straight."

"I do not like pea soup."

"Me neither. At least not the colour." Donut pondered for a moment, before saying, "You know what would be awesome? If we became roommates or something on the outside. That way I could stop you from getting lost and getting hurt by the stove. And we could totally hang out."

"But we can already do that in here."

"Yeah, but... It'd be more awesome out there. We'd have nice food. Like cake."

"Ooh, I like cake."

"See?"

* * *

Doc stood at the edge of the parking lot, waiting. He knew that a lot of guards finished their shift at around this time. He had to find one of them, ask what was happening. Doc's hands were jammed in the pockets of his purple jacket. He could feel his mobile in one of them. O'Malley had said he would call in a week. But there hadn't been a call that day.

Doc knew the sane thing to do would be to switch numbers. Or just throw the mobile phone into a trashcan. Then he wouldn't have to spend his evenings staring at it, horribly afraid it would ring. He had actually thrown it in the trash after O'Malley called the first time. But he'd retrieved it almost immediately. Why? He had absolutely no idea. He was terrified, and yet he kept carrying the phone around with him.

As Doc stood there, fingers touching the mobile phone in his pocket, he heard voices from across the dark parking lot.

"What a day. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate this job?"

"You have, actually. Pretty much every day since you took it."

"Well. Today was particularly bad."

Doc recognised the voices as Wash and York immediately. Doc would have preferred to speak to other guards. He had nothing against York, but Wash was just too intimidating and he just didn't trust him when it came to telling the truth. Still, he had to ask someone. And if they tried to lie, York's horrible lying ability would tip him off. Doc hurried towards the voices so he could catch them before they left.

"Hey, you want to go get some drinks?" he heard York say.

"I just want to go home."

"You sure? It'll be fun. As long as you don't get really drunk off Mai Tais again. I mean, it's hilarious at first until you get all weird."

"Do you have to bring that incident up?" Wash muttered testily.

"It'll be fun, come on."

"Tomorrow, maybe."

"Cool."

"Hey, um... Guys?" Doc called out once he spotted them. York fiddling with his keys and Wash standing next to him, looking even moodier than usual.

"Doc? What are you doing here? Weren't you fired?" York asked.

"Um, yeah. I'm... I'm not here for work. I just wanted to ask you something." Doc scraped his foot against the ground, looking nervous. "Uh. Has anything happened since I left?"

"You have got to be kidding me," Wash muttered. "Did you know something was going to happen?"

Doc then realised he hadn't come up with an excuse for asking about any suspicious accidents.

"No! No, I... No, it was... um... intuition!" Doc babbled. "I was just... just worried, that's all."

York raised an eyebrow, glanced sideways at Wash. Wash's expression was suspicious. Neither of them looked like they were buying it.

"Intuition. Really," Wash said dryly. "You drove all the way to your old workplace just because you had a bad feeling about something?"

"Uh, yep. Just intuition."

"Are we allowed to tell people if stuff has been happening?" York muttered to Wash. "Is there a rule against that?"

"I don't think so. We weren't told to keep it a secret."

"So... something has happened?" Doc's stomach dropped a little. He'd been hoping that O'Malley had somehow faked the photo of the ear. Even though there was no way he could have faked something like that, Doc had hoped...

"Yeah. Since you left it's been a pretty bloody mess," York said. "Day after you left, Donut got attacked by O'Malley and Lopez. Well, O'Malley mostly. Beat him to within an inch of his life, chopped off his ear. He's still pretty much immobile."

Doc breathed a sigh of relief, although it came with a strong surge of guilt. He felt bad for Donut, especially since it was probably his fault... But at least Donut was alive. Immobile, sure, but alive.

"He's still alive? That's really good..."

"Better than what we can say for Henderson," Wash muttered.

_Oh no._

"Who?"

"He's your replacement. Or at least he was." Wash frowned, crossed his arms. "Funny you would show up today. Does your intuition tell you when people have been gutted by insane flag-worshipers?"

Doc's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Gutted? They... That's a metaphor, right? He didn't... literally..."

"I mean that as literally as possible."

"I... No, even for O'Malley, that's..."

"It wasn't O'Malley," Wash interrupted him. "I told you. It was one of those idiots who worship the flag. You know who I'm talking about?"

"Yeah, I think so... He kept asking me if I'd accepted the flag as my savior," Doc said quietly. "He did that?"

"Yeah. O'Malley couldn't have done anything, he was in solitary for what he did to Donut."

_He always seemed like a nice kid when I saw him. A bit too pushy about religion, but he was okay. How could he do something like that? But... maybe O'Malley had nothing to do with that death. Maybe that one isn't his fault. Isn't my fault. It's just coincidence it happened the same day that O'Malley said something bad would happen. He wouldn't go around convincing people to kill others for him, would he? What am I thinking? Of course he would. But that doesn't mean... doesn't mean he really did..._

Doc was fully aware he was grasping at straws. But he had to. He just couldn't have another death on his conscience, he just couldn't.

"Okay. I... I guess I'll just go home now." Doc turned around, started to trudge towards where he'd parked. He stopped when Wash spoke up again.

"You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't." Technically it was true. He didn't know exactly what was going to happen, just that something was going to.

"Doc, you're just as bad a liar as York."

"Hey!" York protested.

"Don't lie to me. How'd you know it was going to happen?" Wash asked.

_\_Doc turned back, looking at Wash and York. "I really didn't know, alright? Please stop being so pushy. I wasn't that pushy after you beat up O'Malley while he was in solitary. That was full-on violence! That's a lot worse than anything you think I did..."

"That never happened. Who said that happened? We weren't even on duty that day," York said quickly. "I mean, I don't even know what you're talking about..."

"There is a very big difference there, Doc. O'Malley is the lowest of the low. I would say he was dirt, but that would be an insult to dirt," Wash said coolly. "Whatever might have happened to him, he would have deserved it. There is a difference between giving out something that a bad person had coming to them, and keeping quiet and letting an innocent person be disemboweled because you were too afraid to say anything."

Doc bit his lip nervously before turning away again. "I'm... I'm leaving, now."

"Okay. But if something else happens... I'm going to be looking at you for answers."


	85. Chapter 79: Desperation

**Chapter Seventy-Nine: Desperation**

Donut didn't sleep well that night.

It started off as the old dream. The old dream of Maine attacking him. Same old dream of plunging a knife continuously into his chest until long after he'd stopped moving.

Same old smell. The same coppery scent of blood drying on the pink carpet of his apartment. But then the smell changed. Changed into something nastier, something even more nauseous than just blood. Donut looked at his hands, which were soaked with blood, then looked down at the corpse he was kneeling next to.

It was no longer Maine. It was Walter, now. Stomach slashed open, guts tumbling onto the same pink carpet.

Donut looked at his hands, the knife he'd been holding now a shiv. He felt sick. He dropped the shiv in the puddle of blood and gore. He tried covering his mouth to stop himself from throwing up again, but his hands were soaked... The smell was a hundred times worse when he held them to his face, and they left red streaks behind.

Hands rested on his shoulder, held him in place. Donut wanted to turn, but he couldn't.

"Accept his Holy Flappiness," he heard the Red Zealot say. "Or you will be the next sacrifice." Donut felt the hands on his shoulders move down, skimming his sides before reaching around and pressing against his stomach. Where the shiv would dig in if he didn't do as the crazy zealot said. His hands felt strange. Warm and sticky, like Donut's blood-soaked ones.

Donut whimpered and shook his head, trying to squirm away from those strange hands.

"So be it. The gatekeepers cannot protect you here, clothwasher."

Donut was turned around, and he saw the Red Zealot's wide smile, and the stained shiv he held up. Donut screwed his eyes shut, covering his face.

"If you won't listen to even that simple order, then there's no more use for you. Is there, my little pastry?"

Donut's eyes shot open again. The manic smile was still in front of him, but it didn't belong to the Red Zealot anymore. It belonged to O'Malley. O'Malley twirled the shiv between his fingers and smiled wider.

"This would be as good a time as any for removing your other ear, wouldn't it?"

Donut woke up with a rather girly shriek, which ended in a pained yelp because he'd moved too fast when he woke up, and it was really making his injuries sting.

"Donut, what the hell?" he heard Simmons mumble. "What are you yelling about?"

"Um... Nothing. Nothing, just... Nothing."

"Then quit it."

"Okay."

Donut didn't go back to sleep after that.

* * *

O'Malley was, by this point, cradling his head in his hands in a last-ditch effort to alleviate the headache. Headache seemed like such a deceptively mild word. It was more like someone stabbing him in the face every few seconds, and in the stomach as well. He curled up on his cot and rocked slightly back and forth. The sedatives actually had a bonus in solitary. When he was on them, he was usually so out of it that the time just kind of rolled by. But at the moment, he had to feel every agonizing second of solitary time. It had only been a couple of days. A month or more of this was pure torture.

He wanted out so badly. Boredom was the thing that O'Malley despised more than anything. And solitary was nothing but that.

He could hear pacing and movement a couple of cells down. The Red Zealot was practically bouncing off the walls in there. O'Malley could hear him moving around, doing his 'morning worship ritual.' Which mostly consisted of chanting, from what O'Malley could hear. Didn't help the headache.

As O'Malley shut his eyes, trying to block out the too-bright lights, he heard footsteps. He could hear South grumbling. The guard shoved a tray of food through the slot before moving on. O'Malley glared at the food tray, then sat up. His eyes landed on the little paper cup sitting on the tray.

A little paper cup of pills.

The pills had stopped coming with the new doctor. Presumably, Wash was back in the position and had reverted back to sending drugs.

Before he had time to think, O'Malley had already grabbed the cup of pills and tipped them into his mouth. He was halfway through washing them down with water when he realised what he was doing.

_Goddammit. You are not an addict! You don't need those pills!_

O'Malley glared at the paper cup, his mouth still full of the pills and orange juice. After a few moments of consideration O'Malley climbed to his feet, made his way to the corner and spat the pills out into the toilet. He flushed the toilet, staring down into the watery depths bitterly. He immediately regretted flushing them. He felt so ill without them, but...

_Curse you, Doc._

O'Malley scowled at the toilet. He knew he wasn't getting out of the solitary cell for quite a while longer. There was no way to contact Doc. He had wanted to call Doc yesterday. He'd said he would. O'Malley didn't like to break those sorts of promises. There was no way he would be able to commit another act of violence to make Doc... reconsider his absence. Not until he could leave. And he couldn't think of a plan because of those damn pills. They made his head cloudy when he did take them, and made it hurt like hell when he wasn't on his medication.

O'Malley kept staring at the depths of his toilet. As he did, he heard the Red Zealot complaining about his own medication.

"These are relics of the devil! They block the holy visions I receive from his Holy Flappiness!"

O'Malley picked up his now empty plastic cup, still scowling. He didn't need that medication. He only felt like he did because Doc had kept him on those colourful pieces of plastic for too long. He didn't require them. Considering Doc's skills with medicine, it was a wonder that he hadn't died through Doc's meddling. Granted, he almost had at one point, that time he'd come down with near-lethal fever because of the constant meddling with medications. But still...

O'Malley stared at the empty cup for a few more moments, his pain-clogged mind struggling with pieces of a rather foggy plan.

_If something happened with my medication... and it caused some form of sickness... they would have to remove me from this cell. They would have to take me to the infirmary. Granted, if Washington was the doctor at that time he'd probably let me die quite gleefully. But there would probably be another doctor in by that point..._

Inherent risks to messing around with medication, certainly. Possible death, for one. But... the risk just makes it more interesting...

Once he could no longer hear North's footsteps, O'Malley peered through the slot towards the Red Zealot's cell. "Zealot. I have a request."

"Yes, O holy prophet! Tell me what to do and it shall be done!" the high-pitched voice chirped back, sending new waves of pain through O'Malley's head.

"The pills you were just given. They block your visions, do they not?"

"Yes."

"I have seen fit to... relieve you of them. I shall take on the burden of those pills so that your visions may be free."

"You are kind and gracious, O prophet."

"Do you have any more followers near these cells?"

"Yes. Three others."

"Tell them to pass on their pills as well."

After a few minutes of fidgeting around, the Red Zealot threw something his way. It rolled within reach of O'Malley and he picked it up. It was the juice box that came with every meal. O'Malley shook it and heard a rattle. He pulled the box open to find that the Zealot had shoved the pills through the tiny hole up the top. O'Malley grinned and put the pills in the corner. It took a lot of effort to do so instead of swallowing them immediately.

He'd collect more pills over the next couple of days. Taking them all together had to have some kind of negative effect. And that would get him out of this cell, and hopefully next to another potential victim.

Admittedly, this plan was grasping on straws. But what else was there? He was a desperate man, by this point. Desperate men do desperate things.

* * *

"You don't think Miller will try something, will he?" Tucker muttered, as he folded up jumpsuits. Church frowned at the wall, as he moved the iron back and forth.

"Who knows. You get any information on what he did this time?"

"Robbed a store, I'm told. Apparently he couldn't hold the gun right because of the fucked up fingers, so he was easily tackled." Tucker shrugged. "If you ask me... it seems a little weird. I mean, why do a crime where the odds of fucking up are that high. Seriously, this bank was only a couple of blocks from a police station, and he can't even hold a fucking gun. It's like he was trying to get back here."

"And why the fuck would he do that?"

"I would do that," Caboose said. He was also folding up jumpsuits. He'd been listening quietly to the conversation, and hadn't chipped in until that. "The outside is scary."

"Yeah? For dumbasses like you, maybe," Tucker said. Caboose frowned slightly at that, but otherwise ignored Tucker.

"Mister Miller cannot do things with his hands anymore. A lot of things out there need hands to do," Caboose said flatly. "The people in prison do all those things for him. People cook food for him and he does not have to drive anywhere. Prison is much easier. So he came back."

"Okay, that actually made some sense," Tucker observed. "Caboose making sense. Did I wake up in opposite land?"

"Well, that still doesn't explain if he's gonna try anything or not," Church muttered. "He didn't do anything after... you know."

"After he got his fingers caught in a door?" Caboose said brightly.

"Yeah. That. He didn't do shit after that."

"If he does anything, I have to kill him. I said I would. And it is always good to keep promises."

"Hey!" Church gestured for Caboose to be quieter. "Not while the guards are around."

"Sorry."

"I don't want to start anything unless he's actually planning on doing something," Church said. "For now, let's just watch. If he shows signs of planning anything violent... then we'll figure out what to do."

"Alright..."

A few minutes later, Tucker dropped the last of a pile of jumpsuits into a basket and then started lugging the basket across the room. Once he was out of earshot, Church nudged Caboose quickly.

"Caboose?"

"Yes?"

"I don't quite trust Miller to keep his fucked up hands to himself. So keep an eye on Tucker, make sure he doesn't get hurt. Can you do that?"

"I can do that. Even if it means helping Tucker." Caboose didn't seem too happy about it, though.

"Good. But don't tell Tucker I told you to. Don't... want him catching on..."

"Catching on?"

"Never mind."


	86. Chapter 80: Fruit Fairy

**A/N: Updates have been slow and will be slow for a little while after this, most likely. I apologise, but real life is still kicking my ass at this point. I have to move and do internship thingies and I also might be disconnected for a while. I'll try my best to get updates out, but I also have stuff on the interweb that is more urgent to do. So if I take a while to update again, I haven't quit. I'm just busy.**

**Chapter Eighty: Fruit Fairy**

Donut was still on edge the next morning. Especially because the cells were quiet. During this time of the day, very few inmates were around. Most of them were working. Most of the guards were in other places, too. Sticking to wherever most of the inmates were, making sure there was no trouble.

So when a voice did speak up, Donut was startled. He may have shrieked just a little bit. This got an irritated sigh from the person standing outside his cell.

"Don't act so startled," Wash muttered, dragging in a stretcher. York was following him. "We have a room set up as a temporary infirmary. We're moving you there."

"Oh. Okay."

It was a relief to be moving again. Admittedly, Donut wasn't so much moving as being carried. But it counted. At least he wasn't completely still. And being on a stretcher was kind of fun. Although being moved on and off the stretcher kind of hurt.

The temporary infirmary was tiny. It was closer to a large closet than an actual room. A couple of cots had been crammed in there, and there was a box that Donut assumed had medical supplies in it. Other than that, nothing.

"It'll do for now. We don't even have a proper doctor, so I guess the room... kind of fits," Wash muttered.

"Could be worse. Knowing Sarge, I was half-expecting him to get the temporary infirmary set up in the laundry closet or something, in order to save space," York observed.

"Is there a lock on the door?" Donut asked.

"Of course not. This was an empty closet. If it had a lock on it, inmates would keep locking the guards out," Wash said.

"Oh."

"What's so important about a lock on the door?"

"Uh, well... it stops people getting in. Makes the place... more secure and everything. Just that," Donut mumbled. Wash rolled his eyes.

"Look, no inmate is going to come in here without my say so unless they have a death wish. So stop worrying. It's annoying."

"Go easy on the kid, Wash. He's just scared." York headed towards the door. "I'm already late for my shift. Good thing Sarge never notices stuff like that. Meet you in the carpark later? You said we'd go drinking."

"I said maybe."

"Well, fine. I might see you, then. If you want to be vague about it." York left, and Wash sat down on the stool he'd managed to cram into the room. He crossed his arms and didn't say anything.

It was awkward. Still, it felt a whole lot safer than down in the cells.

* * *

Miller's hands may have been fucked up beyond all repair, but in the five years since Caboose had snapped all his fingers he had at least mastered the far-too-difficult task of picking up books. As such, he had managed to resume his old job of working in the library.

Of course, every time a book slipped from his crippled hands he felt another surge of hatred for the one who'd ruined his hands and, by extension, ruined his chance of having a normal life on the outside. As Miller stacked books slowly, one at a time, he kept obsessing over the idea of revenge. Since he'd left the prison two years ago, he'd tried everything he could to forget about the prison. Forget about the people inside it. But his hands reminded him. There were other reminders, too. Like of what happened to Joannes. Every time Miller heard a British accent, he would think of Joannes. Think of what Tucker had done to him.

He just kept obsessing over them. Tucker and Caboose. Tucker had destroyed his friend, and Caboose had destroyed his life. Miller couldn't let that go. He'd tried, oh how he'd tried. But he just couldn't.

So he'd come back. It wasn't like he could do anything on the outside, anyway. There was nothing left for him out there. And even inside prison, all that was left was that obsession. That obsession with revenge.

As Miller continued stacking books, he heard footsteps and looked up to see the last member of his old circle of friends, Jenkins, approaching him. The others had left the prison by now. Jenkins was a bit too chirpy and cheerful at times for his liking, and occasionally an absolute moron, but he would do.

"Okay. What have you got on them?" Miller muttered. "What's happened since I left?"

"Nothing much. It's been kind of dull around here, barring the last couple of weeks." Jenkins plopped down on one of the chairs. After glancing at the guard in the corner (who wasn't listening) Jenkins continued. "If you're gonna go after Church's friends, it's gonna be real tough. Now, if you really insist on it..."

"I really do fucking insist on it."

"Then how are you going to get to them? I mean, sure, it's probably doable. Yeah, definitely doable. It's easy enough to beat up Tucker, if you can get him alone. But as long as Caboose is around, it'll just end up with him snapping fingers again. So, basically..."

"I'd have to get rid of Caboose first, that right?"

"Yeah, that's it."

Miller crossed his arms, thinking. "Is there anyone who'd have reason to help us?"

"To help us, specifically? Not really. But there'd be plenty who'd want Caboose out of the way. Lot of hate for Church's little group in general. Get Caboose out of the way, and the way is clear to both Church and Tucker."

"Hmph." Miller shrugged. "Don't give a damn about Church. It's Tucker I want dead."

"Well, there will be nothing stopping you if Caboose is gone. Now..." Jenkins shifted, turning around in his seat so he was sitting on it backwards. "I'm pretty sure you're not the only one actively trying to get rid of the kid. He was attacked a bit over a week ago. Same day Doc left."

"Doc's gone?"

"Oh, yeah. He ran off. But anyway... rumour has it that O'Malley attacked him. Managed to get him pretty good, from what I hear. Plus, he didn't get his head crushed in return. That's a pretty good sign. Might be worth looking into."

"O'Malley, hm?"

Miller didn't know much about O'Malley. The only time he had met the man, that had been when O'Malley informed him that Donut had been trying to get information out of him for Tucker. While he didn't know much, there had been something about O'Malley that struck him as... off. Probably the manic giggling.

Still, it was worth checking.

"Where's O'Malley?"

"Solitary."

"Hmph. Fine. Look for other options, but for now? Unless we can find another idea, we wait until O'Malley gets out. Keep looking for things we can use against them, though.

"Okie dokie." Jenkins made a thumbs up gesture before hurrying out. Miller returned to stacking books.

_They won't stop me this time. Even if it kills me, I will make sure they pay for what they did to me and Joannes._

* * *

Donut was attempting to eat the mystery meat on his tray with one hand. It was difficult. Of course, it had to be his left hand that was working. Stupid messed up hand. Donut's clumsy attempts to eat ended up with him dropping his spoon under the cot. He couldn't reach that far.

"Hey, Wash? Can you get my spoon for me?" Donut asked. At the cold stare he got in return, Donut quickly added, "You know what? It's fine. Don't worry about it."

Without his spoon, Donut instead started plucking the chunks of meat out of his food. Still tasted alright, even though Donut preferred not to eat with his fingers. He was about halfway through eating when Wash spoke up.

"How did you do it?"

"Huh?" Donut paused, still holding a chunk of meat. "How did I do what? Eat without a spoon? It's easy. Kind of gross, but easy."

"Don't be stupid." Wash's stare was rather stony, and he was absolutely focused on Donut's face. "How did you kill the Meta?"

"What?"

"Is there something about the sentence you didn't understand?" Wash snapped. "How. Did. You. Kill. Him?"

"What's a Meta?"

"Your roommate."

"Oh, Maine?" Donut paused, then dropped the chunk of meat he was holding on the plate. "Wait, wait, wait. You knew him?!"

"In a matter of speaking. I knew him well enough to know that he is not an easy man to kill." Wash's grey eyes were boring into Donut's brown ones. It was rather uncomfortable, and Donut had to drop his gaze. It didn't help much. He could still feel Wash staring at him. "How did you do it?"

"I... I don't... Why are you asking me?"

"Because I want to know. I have to know."

Donut looked up again. "But why?"

"I just do."

"That's not an answer."

"Look. I don't owe you an answer. Not until you've given me one. And even then, it better be a goddamn good one."

Donut open and shut his mouth a few times voicelessly before finally answering. "It... it was just luck, that's all."

"Bullshit."

"No, it's not!"

"You expect me to believe it was luck? You really expect me to believe that?!" Donut froze at that moment. Because at the moment Wash raised his voice, he looked... different. Donut had always sort of gotten this weird feeling about Wash. Like he wasn't quite stable. It had always been more of a feeling than anything. But now? He could clearly see it.

"I-It really was. Why are you getting so... So angry about this?"

"Why am I getting so angry?" Donut could feel fury emitting from every syllable. "To put it shortly, I spent years chasing after the Meta. Trying to track him down. Track him down so... so we could settle something that had come up. And that entire time, I trained to make sure that when I met him this time... That I would be ready for whatever he threw at me." Wash's glare got even more potent, something that Donut hadn't thought possible. Donut squirmed as Wash kept talking.

"And what happens? I find him. I find him in the newspaper, under a headline that he'd been murdered," Wash said bitterly. "After all that searching, all that... All that preparation, I find him dead in the newspapers. And who killed him? Some... Some..." Wash struggled for words for a moment, before shouting, "SOME FUCKING LITTLE FRUIT FAIRY WHO NEVER GOT INTO SO MUCH AS A SLAP FIGHT!"

Donut yelped and attempted to cover his head with the sheets.

"So... yeah. I'm pretty angry. Because I just can't believe that you... you, of all people, killed the Meta. I cannot believe it was out of luck." Donut peeked out of the sheets to see Wash point at him. His voice was calm again, but Donut was still shivering. If anything, the sudden return to calmness was even scarier. "I'm warning you, Donut. Everyone else around here might be fooled by your harmless, wimpy act... but you will not fool me. Meta did not die out of 'luck.' And if you don't tell me how you really killed him then I'll just have to force the truth out of you. Trust me when I say that will not be a pleasant experience for you."

"But... I-I-It really w-was..." Donut started, his voice shaking, before Wash interrupted him.

"Save your energy unless you're going to tell me the truth. If it's about anything else I don't want to hear it."


	87. Chapter 81: Names

**Chapter Eighty-One: Names**

Sheila did not lose her cool easily. Keeping her head around patients was a necessity, especially for neurologists. Many of her patients weren't quite there mentally. Last thing she needed to be doing was losing it. That generally extended to the rest of her life.

Seeing Lopez on the other side of that glass with a broken nose and nasty bruises spread over his face and neck, as well as walking gingerly in a way that suggested a broken rib... that was one of the few things that could make Sheila's calmness implode.

"_What happened to you?!_"

Lopez edged himself into a chair before answering. "_Calm down. It's nothing. I've been through worse._"

"_That is not nothing! Were you attacked? Are you okay? Did you go to the infirmary? Are—_"

"_It's nothing,_" Lopez repeated.

"_Tell me what happened. You didn't start insulting the other Spanish prisoners, did you?_"

"_I only did that once. These particular injuries?_" Lopez frowned for a moment. "_The short version? I helped some asshole do something pretty bad to a little fruity man. And his friends didn't like it._" Lopez shook his head. "_The people in this prison are idiots. But they're violent idiots. It's an enormous bloodbath waiting to happen._"

Sheila rested her head in her hands briefly. "_I knew it wasn't safe in there, but... I didn't think it was that bad. You got checked at the infirmary, didn't you?_"

"_I did. Although if it happens again there might be difficulties. We have no doctor at the moment._"

"_...What?_"

"_The first one was incompetent and ran away. The second one was disemboweled._" Lopez paused for a moment. "_I take back my earlier comment. The bloodbath has already started._"

Sheila frowned. Caboose had never said anything to her about the prison being that dangerous. Of course, he was a big kid. Maybe that had something to do with it. In any case, the splotchy bruises Lopez was covered with proved enough.

It wasn't just the injuries that worried Sheila. Lopez looked a lot grumpier than normal. He'd never been a cheerful person, but he looked a lot more depressed than the last time Sheila had seen him.

"_It'll... It'll be okay._"

"_How?_" Lopez scowled bitterly. "_Everyone in this hellhole is either an idiot, incredibly violent, completely psychotic or all three. It's Hell. Absolute Hell._" Lopez shook his head. "_Sorry. I shouldn't say things like that around you. Too pessimistic, isn't it? You don't like that much, do you?_"

"_Well, you always were a pessimist. But I think it's understandable in this situation._" Sheila touched her fingertips to the glass. Lopez mirrored the motion. "_Is there anything I can do?_"

"_I doubt it. Just... as long as you keep visiting me. That's all I need. I can keep going just for that. Will you do that?_"

"You don't even have to ask for that."

A tiny smile appeared on Lopez's face. "_Then I'll be fine._" A few moments of amiable silence. "_I miss you._"

"_I miss you, too._"

There was another long stretch of comfortable quiet before Sheila said, "_There has to be someway I can help you. One of my old patients is inside the prison. If I asked him to protect you, I'm sure he would. Do you know him? His name is Caboose._"

Lopez's eyebrows furrowed. "_Him? I don't think it's going to happen._"

"_Really? What makes you so sure? He's a good kid. Muddled, but he's nice enough. Have you met him?_"

"_I have. I got rather well acquainted with his fists,_" Lopez muttered dryly.

"_Wait. Are you saying he did this?_"

* * *

"I'm sorry for running off last time, alright? I was just... you know." Grif had spent the last few minutes babbling rather incoherent apologies for running off in the middle of Sister's last visit. All the while trying to avoid the reason why he'd gotten so upset in the first place.

"You should be sorry. That was really uncool." Sister pouted at him. "Seriously, it was mean. I think you're getting meaner in old age, Dex."

"Hey!"

"Ooooold."

"Go mock Simmons, he's the one going grey."

"But... but mocking you is more fun."

Grif drummed his fingers on the desk in front of him. "Whatever. So... you're doing okay, aren't you?"

"Awesome. I mean, I have to spend a lot of time lying down lately. The kid is super tiring, and he hasn't even been born yet. But otherwise, awesome."

Grif kept drumming his fingers on the desk. He was slightly hoping that there was some problems happening, just so that he could do something for Sister. Of course, he then mentally punched himself for hoping that. Sister not needing help was a good thing. He was just being clingy.

"Cool, cool."

Sister looked down at her pregnant stomach, patting it gently. "I need to think of a name for him."

"A name?" Grif raised an eyebrow. "You know I'm gonna insist on whatever names I can remember from action movies, right?"

"Oh, right. I don't want to name him after Bruce Lee."

"Come on, it'd be awesome. Bruce Lee Grif."

"But I don't like Bruce Lee movies! They were boring!"

"I am so tempted to disown you right now." Grif sat back in his chair. "I don't have any other ideas. I mean, there's that whole 'naming them after dead relatives' thing. But we don't know Dad's name. Please don't name him after Mum."

"But I can't think of another name..."

"Oh, so you wouldn't name a boy Bruce Lee but you would name him Kamoana?"

"Okay, okay. Well, naming him after you would just be weird. Dexter is a lame name, anyway."

"Yeah..."

Sister pondered for a moment, and her eyes slid over to the door which inmates passed through on their way in and out of the room. "What's Simmons' first name?"

"Okay, if you name your kid 'Dick' then I'm gonna be obliged to make a lot of wiener jokes."

"Middle name?"

"Shirley."

"...Really?"

"Yeah, I don't know what his parents were on, either."

* * *

"Sheeeeeeeeila!" As per usual, Caboose forgot about the glass in between them and crashed into it. "Ow." Sheila's response to this was to just quietly sit there. Caboose sat down quickly, fidgeting around cheerfully. "Sheila, Sheila, Sheila! I am so happy to see you." He looked at Sheila for a few more moments, then tilted his head. "Sheila, why are you staring at me like that?"

"You tried to strangle my husband."

"No, I did not."

"Yes, you did."

"Noooo. No, I did not. Please stop staring at me like that. It is scary."

Sheila's eyes only narrowed. She was not acting like a kind doctor lady. Through everything, from the car accident to being stuck in prison, Sheila had always been nice to him. She had been nice and hadn't yelled at him like Mama and Papa and all the angry policemen. She had always been nice. But now, she had a very angry expression. She was not shouting, but the cold fury was worse than any amount of screaming.

"Why would you do something like that?" Sheila asked.

Caboose normally was good at pretending the bad stuff never happened. It was harder to do when Sheila was staring at him like that.

"It was not my fault! He... he started it. He hurt Admiral Buttercrust. And he... he is a bad man! He was doing bad things with O'Malley! And he... Admiral Buttercrust said he was a wife killer. He will hurt you! That is a bad thing!"

"Lopez has only been married once, and that was to me."

Caboose processed this for a moment. "You are a zombie?"

"No, my point was that he has not killed any wives."

"Yes, he has. Admiral Buttercrust said so."

"He hasn't. Your friend got it wrong."

"But Lopez is still a bad man! He... he really hurt Admiral Buttercrust. He is still not moving. That... that is very bad."

Sheila frowned a little. "That's no excuse for strangling people. Caboose, you told me the last time was an accident."

"It was an accident. I did not mean to, I thought..." Caboose stopped, then shook his head. "No. No, she fell over. And strangled herself at the same time. It was no-one's fault."

"I'd really like to believe you. I've tried. But... You've hit my bullshit meter one too many times."

"It... it is the truth..."

"I have to go back to the hospital soon. So I'm going to tell you something. Don't hurt Lopez again. Actually, more than that... I want you to keep him safe." Sheila's eyes narrowed even further, so much so that they were almost shut. "I'm warning you, Caboose. You hurt one more hair on my husband's head and... and I will never visit you ever again."

Caboose's eyes widened. "No. No, don't do that. Please. Please say you are kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

She did not. She looked very scary. Caboose shut his eyes, clasped his hands over his head.

"I... But... I..."

_I do not want to protect Lopez. I want him to fall over. He is a bad man. A very bad man. And I am protecting too many people already. I have to make sure Church and Captain Biscuit are safe. And Church told me to watch Tucker. I cannot watch Lopez as well._

_But... But Sheila is so mad... She has never been mad before._

"I... will try." That was the best Caboose could manage.

"Good. Because if you don't... I'm going to be very disappointed in you."


	88. Chapter 82: Like A Cockroach

**Chapter Eighty-Two: Like A Cockroach**

At about 3am in the morning, Donut was still awake. He was sleepy, that was for sure. But a mixture of his constantly terrifying dreams and how scared he was of... basically the whole prison at the moment... made sleeping sound like a bad option at the moment.

Even when he was awake, he kept expecting to see someone looming in that doorway. Even though he knew O'Malley and the Zealot were locked in solitary, and that the cells were closed at this time anyway. Even though he knew Wash had gone home hours ago. And even though Maine (the Meta, Wash had called him, where had he even got that from?) was long dead at this point. Donut kept staring at the door, expecting one of them to appear there holding a knife or a shiv or just ready to punch him into a bloody smear with their fists.

And if they tried, there wasn't anything Donut could do about it. He couldn't even try and walk away, let alone run. He was just a useless lump of bandages and stitches. With no hair. And a broken gaydar.

Not that a gaydar would be much help in that situation. Being able to tell if someone was a 'left-handed hitter' didn't really help in a fight.

So, what was he going to do if something happened?

He had to be able to move. He didn't want to be attacked again. He was scared that he might not be able to survive another one.

Donut listened carefully. The prison was completely silent. If there was any noise going on in the cells, he wouldn't be able to hear it from where he was. Not unless it turned into a fullscale riot or something. Donut kept quiet for a few seconds, mostly listening for any guards walking by. When he heard nothing, he used his good hand to push himself into a sitting position. It hurt, but it was doable.

It took Donut a long time to shift along the bed towards the wall. He could only move an inch at a time. Once he got close enough to the wall, he placed his feet firmly on the ground and shoved himself off the cot.

His intent had been to lean against the wall once he was standing. But his legs didn't stay up long enough for that to be a viable option. Instead, they gave out and he toppled to the floor immediately. A sharp pain shot through his torso, and Donut spent the next few minutes clinging to his stomach, where the pain was the worst.

"Owwww..."

None of the stitches broke, at least. Once the pain dulled down enough, however, Donut realised he couldn't get up again. He was stuck sprawled on the floor. And there was no-one he could call for help since he'd made sure he couldn't hear any guards before he'd attempted it.

_Dye-Job, you fucking idiot. Brilliant job there. Bravo._ That thought was followed by a very slow clapping noise.

Donut mentally told the Church-ish voice in his head to be quiet and stop the sarcastic applause before shifting a little into a more comfortable position. If he had to spend the rest of the night on the floor, he might as well be comfy.

His brief attempt at standing up had left him even more tired than when he began, and he fell asleep rather quickly.

His dreams still contained psychotic laughter and screwdrivers. Still had red stains on a pink carpet.

When he woke up (not screaming this time, but still shaken) it was because Wash had prodded him with his foot.

"What are you doing on the floor?" he said bluntly.

"Uh... Nothing. I'm fine."

"Then get back on the cot."

"...I can't get up."

Wash sighed irritably before kneeling down and reaching out towards Donut. He'd clearly just been attempting to pick Donut up and put him back on the cot, but Wash's outburst the previous day was still fresh in Donut's mind.

His response to Wash even getting near him was attempting to shift away and babbling, "I'm fine, really. I'll get back to the cot eventually."

"Oh, really. How long have you been on the floor?"

"I don't know. There's no clock in here. But it was dark."

"It's eight in the morning. You're not getting back to the cot yourself." Wash scooped up Donut (it wasn't hard, he was tiny) and dumped him back on the cot. Perhaps a little rougher than what was really necessary. Donut squeaked in pain, but Wash ignored it. "Why were you even on the floor in the first place?"

"I was trying to walk. But my legs aren't working very well."

"Of course you can't walk yet. You haven't left enough time to heal. Most would have died from a beating like that."

Donut smiled slightly. Very slightly. "Oh, I've always been good at that. Surviving things that should have killed me, I mean. Like, when I was eight I got hit by a car going at full-speed. Went flying through the air. Only got a scrape. And when I was reaaaaaally young, I think there was some sort of accident my family was in... don't remember it, just something the ladies at the orphanage mentioned, I was only, like, three... but I got out okay. I mean, obviously, or I wouldn't be here. I've always been kind of lu—" Donut stopped rambling before he said it was 'just luck' again. Wash had probably guessed what he was about to say, because his eyes kind of narrowed. But at least he didn't shout again.

Besides, it was 'just luck.' Donut just managed to get out of lethal situations alright, to the extent that he sometimes thought there was an angel guarding him or that he was secretly a really pretty cockroach. It's not like being strong or skilled could really save you from not dying when a full-speed car hit you.

Still, Wash just looked more suspicious than ever. Donut felt that he really shouldn't have said anything. What if Wash went all angry-crazy again? Surviving an attack from O'Malley was one thing. Surviving one from Wash would be a lot harder.

But it wasn't like Wash could somehow link the fact that Donut once got hit by a car to Maine. Not unless he decided to be a really paranoid git about it.

* * *

Caboose had to keep turning his head. It was hard to keep a watch on different people. His neck was starting to hurt.

Church was fine. Turn slightly. Tucker was fine. Turn a lot more. Lopez was fine. Turn back to Church. Church was fine. Turn slightly...

Normally, Caboose would spend breakfast time sorting his cereal in two piles before eating it. But he had no time. He had to keep watching Church and Tucker and Lopez. And once breakfast was done he would have to run really fast to make sure Captain Buttercrust was okay before going to the laundry room.

Miller was watching. He would keep looking up at their table and then quickly look down again. Go back to trying to pick up the spoon with his messed-up fingers. The next time he looked up, their eyes met very briefly.

Caboose smiled in the way that he'd seen Mama do when she had to talk to Dad. The smile that sort of looked like a 'hello, it's nice to see you' smile. But it was really a 'I don't like you, go away' smile. Miller looked away immediately. Caboose hummed cheerfully and went back to keeping an eye on Church, Tucker and Lopez.

He kind of wished Miller would be silly and attack Tucker. Then Caboose could kill him and then he would not have to watch Tucker anymore. He did not like watching Tucker. Tucker was not a nice person. He said that Caboose was being 'a creepy bastard.' Stupid Tucker.

At least O'Malley wasn't around. Although, getting rid of him would be the best way to fix everything. And no-one would be mad at him, because O'Malley was a nasty man. But he was also scary. Really, really scary. Worse than the boogeyman, even. Whenever he was around, all Caboose could do was stay really still and hope O'Malley would leave.

Even after all the bad things O'Malley had done... even after he'd hurt Admiral Muffin really badly... Caboose couldn't do anything. He was too scared. Because O'Malley knew all about the bad things Caboose had done. He knew things even Church didn't. And it was scary, because it was hard to pretend they never happened when O'Malley was telling him they did.

Caboose twisted in his seat, looked back at Lopez. He was sitting by himself, looking moody.

_Was he tricked by O'Malley, too? Like Muffin Man was? ...Like I was?_

Caboose frowned, shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was confusing to think about, but it did not matter. He had to protect him either way. Or Sheila would hate him.

But what would happen if he hurt Muffin Man again? He could not let Lopez hurt Muffin Man again. But he did not want Sheila to hate him, either. If Lopez did anything too nasty... Caboose didn't know what he'd do.

Caboose pushed away his food tray. Thinking too hard always took away his appetite. And he had to visit Major Cinnamon Bun, anyway. There wasn't usually attacks in the cafeteria, so if he was really, really, really fast... then everything would be good and no-one would die.

* * *

"This waiting is getting on my nerves," Grif mumbled. "We gotta figure out how to get to that O'Malley guy. Don't even know what the douchebag looks like."

Tucker looked up from his food, more talkative now that he wasn't being creeped out by Caboose constantly staring at him. Creepy bastard. "You still on about that?"

"Of course. All we've done is beat up the guy who held his arms back. That's half-assed." Grif shrugged. "And sure, half-assed is usually awesome... but if we were gonna do a half-assed job of it, then we should have kicked O'Malley's ass to begin with."

"Eh, can't say he doesn't have it coming to him." Tucker propped his chin on his hands. "What are you planning on doing to him, anyway? Anything awesome? Awesome for you, not him."

"Haven't decided yet. Besides... don't want you running off and telling the guards," Grif muttered.

"Hey! Give me a little credit! What would I get out of doing that, anyway?"

"Fine, then be helpful and tell us what he looks like."

"I dunno how to be specific. I mean, only real descriptive thing is 'red hair and crazy face.' And the crazy face isn't always there. So then it's just red hair. That describes a lot of people. Hell, that describes Simmons. Next you'll be punching him in the face again."

Simmons rolled his eyes. "Right. Then point him out next time he's here."

"Could be risky. If he sees me pointing at him, he'll target all of us. He's kind of a bitch like that."

"Fine. Is there anyway you can be useful, then?" Simmons asked irritably.

"Oh, I'm sure there is. Maybe just... luring him somewhere, like with Lopez. Be more dangerous, sure, but to get that asshole—" Tucker was interrupted by Church.

"No. It's not worth it."

"Not worth it? It's fucking O'Malley, of course it's worth it."

"No. Just... No." Church shook his head. "Look, whatever is going on around here... the best way to get through it would be doing that ostrich thing. Shoving your head in the sand or whatever. Just ignoring it. That's the only solution if it's about O'Malley. Guy is fucking crazy. If someone attacked him, the sick bastard would probably enjoy it. Whatever amuses him, right? And nothing amuses him more than finding people to target."

"So? If he doesn't get out with... what he needs to do that kind of shit... then it won't matter, right?" Grif asked.

"Oh, you gonna cut something off?"

"Well, he cut off Donut's ear. It's fair, really."

"Doesn't matter what you do. Either you kill him or he'll come after you. So if you want to be left alone, either cut his throat or just leave him alone," Church said. "Either way, leave us out of it."

"Oh, shut up, Church. Don't I get a say?" Tucker complained, only to be met with a sharp glare. "...Jerk."


	89. Chapter 83: Bitch Slap

**Chapter Eighty-Three: Bitch Slap**

"No, I need another doctor immediately. ...Yeah, I know I hired that Henderson fella, but he got himself gutted somehow. ...That ain't a metaphor, son. Look, I need a new doctor. Don't care who, as long as they can start work tomorrow. ...No, I promise this one won't die horribly. ...Well, probably won't. ...So you'll get back to me on it? Hello? ...Hello?" Sarge frowned, still holding the phone to his ear after the man had hung up. "That was unnecessarily rude. Bastard."

It was times like this when Sarge really missed the army. If a medic got disemboweled in the army, then whoever sent the medics out wouldn't just hang up the damn phone. They would send another goddamn medic. Sarge dropped the phone on the receiver, only to have it ring a few seconds later.

"Son of a..."

Flowers wasn't around at the moment. He was outside, trying to improve security by not spending his lunchtime playing cards or chess with Sarge. As such, Sarge was now without a secretary. Well, without anyone who did a secretary voice, anyway. Sarge picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Yo, Sarge. How you doing, dude?" the voice on the other end said cheerfully.

"Vic?" That couldn't be good. If Vic was calling, he knew that there were problems. He never called unless it was bad news. "Something wrong?"

"I've been hearing some grade-A nasty here, dude. Grade-A nasty about that doctor dude who you hired. Something about being carved like a Thanksgiving turkey, if you know what I mean. Hoping you could catch me up on that."

"Ah, yes. That ain't my fault, Vic. Henderson didn't even have the courtesy to stay alive for more than a couple of days! Lazy, no-good..." Sarge trailed off into mild grumbling.

"Yo, dude, I'm totally vibing the inconvenience here. Thought I better tell you what the skinny is. The Chairman's been getting mighty uppity at your antics, you dig? He's sending me over in a couple of weeks to, you know, size up the prison? See how it's shining. So, dude, I'm just warning you that you better get it together."

"I have to get it together?! You're acting like I gutted Henderson myself, you..."

"Dude, chill. Take a chill pill. Or a chill strip. Just chill, alright? I'm not even supposed to be warning you, but I know that things are pretty swampy there. Thought you could use a heads up. Don't say anything to the big man, alright? Mum's the word."

"Alright, but things are just fine here. Apart from the disembowelment. And the consistent attacks, and all those macaroni-related incidents..."

"Yo, dude, just fix what needs fixing, alright? No pun intended. ...Not sure what I meant by that."

Sarge hung up shortly afterwards before dialing the number of another medical clinic. He really needed that doctor now. Didn't want an inspection to take place without a doctor there.

* * *

"I can handle it! Don't go making shitty decisions for me. If O'Malley needs dealing with, I can do that! I can help, at least!" Tucker insisted. "Come on, man, he's fucking asking for it."

Church scowled. "We're not talking about this. Just stay the fuck away from him."

"God, what the hell is up your ass, lately?"

"Look, I just don't like it when everything gets all..." Church waved his hand briefly, trying to think of the word, before giving up. "Like this. With people getting hurt and dying everywhere. First off, O'Malley is a fuck-up. Him just being around causes this stuff. But it's getting worse, you know?" Church sighed before sitting down on his cot. Tucker was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring at him expectantly.

"Yeah, so? That's why he needs to be dealt with."

"I know. But... I don't want to be tied to it. I can't fucking kill anyone, alright? If O'Malley kicks the bucket and it's tied to me..."

Tucker frowned. "Right. The Eddie thing."

"Exactly. And even besides that...if O'Malley doesn't die, he'll get even worse. That's just what he does. I already said that. It's safer just to stay out of it." Church looked upwards at Tucker. "Besides, you really want to risk this? If you're caught trying to get O'Malley killed... that'll ruin any chance you have at parole. You'll fuck it up, and you'll be locked off from Junior forever. Gonna risk that just for some shitty attempt to stab an asshole?"

Tucker went quiet for a few long moments before saying, "I... don't know if it matters that much, anymore."

"What?"

"Junior doesn't need me. He doesn't need me now, and he's only eleven. When I get to the point where there's even the slightest chance at parole, he'll be twenty-one. He'll be an adult. Honestly, there is no chance he'll need me around even if I do achieve parole."

"Oh god, are you moping just because he didn't visit yesterday? Don't be such a fucking wuss."

"Hey!"

"What? You suddenly don't care about leaving because Junior doesn't fucking need you? So what? You're gonna fuck up parole just because of that? Don't. Be. So. Fucking. Stupid!" With the last word, Church grabbed Tucker's shoulders. "Don't fuck up that. You'll regret it. Every fucking day I wish I could leave this dump, but I'll never have the chance. So what if Junior doesn't need you? Big deal, that doesn't mean you can't see him. And there's a bunch of stuff you can enjoy out there! You were the one reminiscing about all the awesome stuff on the outside, does that suddenly not matter because Junior skipped a goddamn fucking visit?"

"But—"

Whatever Tucker had been about to say, he was interrupted by Church slapping him. Hard.

"Pull yourself the fuck together!" Church snapped. Tucker blinked, then rubbed his face where Church had hit him.

"Did... Did you just fucking bitch slap me?!" Tucker yelled indignantly, his voice an octave higher than usual.

"You bet your girly ass I did, now stop acting like an emo dumbass! Or I swear I'll hit you again. Don't get tangled in whatever stupid feud is going on between O'Malley and the others. Stay out of it. Because odds are it'll kill either you or your chances at parole, and both of those options suck."

"I didn't say I wanted to stay in here forever! It just doesn't really matter if I do!"

"I'm not repeating myself. Don't. Fuck. Up."

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Jeez. Once again. The stick up your ass. How'd it get up there so deep? Was it some kind of weird kink thing that you and Donut tried?"

"Fuck you."

* * *

Just an hour before lockdown, late in the evening, the mostly silent infirmary was interrupted by an irritable shout.

"Will you stop it?!"

Donut winced at Wash's yelling, as he tried to prop himself up to a standing position once again. "I want to walk!"

"You're just going to tear your stitches again. And then I'll have to put up with you for a lot longer. And trust me, that's not an appealing option. Now stay on the bunk or I'll pepper spray you."

"Eep." Donut quickly stopped trying to climb to his feet. "You're an asshole, you know that?" Upon the glare he received for that comment, he quickly added, "Please don't hurt me."

"You might be getting hurt in the future unless you tell me how you killed Meta."

"I don't have an answer to that!"

"Hmph. I seriously hope you change your mind."

"How am I supposed to change my mind? It's... Ah, nuts to this. You're not gonna believe me anyway."

"Of course not."

"Well, if I'm such a badass, then how did O'Malley get me so beat up? Huh?"

Wash twitched a little. "O'Malley is dangerous. He doesn't have the same amount of brute strength as the Meta, that's true. But he's very, very dangerous. I've seen that first-hand."

"Still, you'd think—"

Donut was interrupted by the lights suddenly turning off.

"Is it lights out already?" Donut asked. He was pretty sure that wasn't the case after a few moments, because he heard some shouts in the air. Including Sarge's very distinctive "What in sam hell?!"

Donut kept listening for a few moments, then asked, "You think there was a blackout or something?"

Wash didn't answer.

"Wash?"

No answer. Just silence. Donut knew Wash hadn't snuck off or anything, but the guard was dead silent.

"Wash? Hello? Waaaaaaaash?"

After a few more seconds, during which the only sound was various shouts from around the prison and a clashing noise that sounded like two dinner trays being smashed together, the lights flickered on again. Donut glanced up at the lights before looking at Wash.

Wash was sitting completely still, hands clenched into fists. He'd gone completely white, and there was this weird expression on his face. It was weird because Wash looked so... terrified... at that moment. Donut hadn't even imagined that Wash, badass guard, would be scared of anything.

That was only for a moment, though. After that moment, Wash climbed to his feet. He still looked pale, but the scared expression had gone and he was back to being calm and detached.

"The electricity must have gone out," he said quietly. "It's a good thing it was only for a few moments, or else a riot probably would have started. You'll be fine, so I think I'll leave now. Make sure nothing happened."

"Wash?"

"Most likely nothing, but I better go check."

"Wash? Are... are you afraid of the dark?"

Wash didn't move for a moment. But when he spoke, there was just a hint of anger.

"Not another word. Clear?"

Donut gulped. "Crystal clear."

* * *

"Turdbuckets," Sarge muttered to himself, after the lights came back on again. "Now the electricity is shorting out, too? That blooming inspection has got this place cursed." He looked sideways at Flowers. "Do you remember the last time the wires and such were checked?"

"Hasn't happened in the entire time I've worked here."

"Gah. We need someone to come and check them. I'm in serious danger of losing my job at the moment. I can't lose it! The wife'll kill me! Or worse, she'll force me to eat nothing but mayonnaise! Mayonnaise with blue food dye in it!"

"That's worse than death?"

"Much worse! We need an electrician. Gotta get him here tomorrow. Along with a new doctor. Now, if we could find some sort of electrician-doctor hybrid, that would solve all our problems!"


	90. Chapter 84: Overdose

**Chapter Eighty-Four: Overdose**

"No, come on. Just send any doctor. Send your crappiest, I don't care as long as he knows enough to replace a goddamn security guard. Come on, you... Oh, you son of a barstool!" Sarge roared at the receiver.

After yet another failed attempt at acquiring a doctor, Sarge slammed the phone on the receiver before spending the next ten minutes glaring at it angrily. Trying to stare the phone into ringing again with an available doctor on the line.

It didn't work. Mostly because the phone is not a sentient object that can be intimidated by an angry ex-soldier.

After ten minutes of nothing but a staring contest with an object that didn't have eyes, Sarge started rummaging through his drawers. He knew he had a bottle of whiskey in there somewhere. (He could have really gone for a pina colada, but he didn't have any cream of coconut.) Eventually he located the whiskey, placed it on the desk before rummaging around for a shot glass. While he did this, he heard a voice speak up from the doorway.

"Sneaking alcohol to work now?"

"Shuddup, goldilocks."

Flowers took his regular seat on top of the desk, watching Sarge continue his search. "Now, Sarge. The rude names aren't good for the morale of the team."

"You're a dirty Blue! That means calling you names just helps the Red effort!"

"Drinking on the job isn't good for that, either," Flowers said, continuing as if he hadn't heard Sarge. "Not to mention against the rules."

"Feh. What does it matter? If I don't find a doctor soon, then I'm getting fired anyway. Don't think a few shots of whiskey is gonna hurt. Aha!" Sarge finally pulled out a shotglass. "Success. Thought you could hide from me, you diabolical piece of glass... Hey!"

Flowers had picked up the bottle of whiskey and was now holding it just out of Sarge's reach. It wasn't difficult, seeing as Sarge was somewhat vertically challenged.

"If you keep drinking, I'm going to have to tell the wife."

"Now that's just below the belt. Give me that! Don't make me pull rank, you—"

"If you get drunk on the job, I won't have to pull rank. You won't have a rank. So, no... either way, I'm not giving this back." Flowers slid off the desk, smiling apologetically. "You can have it back once we're off-duty. And before you threaten to fire me, I'll just point out that you can't put 'tried to stop me from drinking on the job' as the reason on the paperwork."

"I hate you."

Flowers chuckled. "Yes, you've said that before. Do you want to trade sandwiches if the missus has been putting mayonnaise on yours?"

"Spare me your girly whole-wheat bread."

The phone rang as Flowers sat down again with his sandwiches. Without even waiting for a prompt, Flowers picked it up and answered in his secretary voice.

"Hello?" There was a pause. "Sarge is in a meeting. Can I take a message?" Flowers listened for a moment, then quickly said, "If it's something like that, I think I can... call him out of the meeting. Hang on a minute." He covered the receiver. "Er. She says she's a doctor."

"What? Give that here." Sarge grabbed the phone off him. "Hello? You a doctor?"

"Yes. I'm Dr. Filss, I'm a neurologist at Sidewinder Hospital. I was told there was a position open in your prison, Mr..."

"Just call me Sarge."

"Very well. I should say up front that I specialise in head injuries. My training in other areas is less complete. But if you have no better candidates, I would like to apply."

"Lady, if you have more medical knowledge than a security guard or a med school dropout then you'll be more than enough."

"I believe I fulfill the requirements, then."

"Okay, then show up here tomorrow."

"For an interview?"

"No, for the goddamn job, what do you think?"

"I assumed there would be at least an interview. For all you know, I could be a prank caller."

"Even if you were a prank caller it's better than not having a doctor at all."

"Well, I didn't expect to acquire the job so easily. I can't start right away, I have to sort out some loose ends where my old job is concerned. I think I can manage that in a week..."

"Urrghhh... A week? That's pushing it."

"I apologise, but I can't leave any sooner."

"Alright, alright. Show up here in the next week and you've got a job." Sarge hung up. "Huh. Well, that was a cakewalk."

"A minute ago you were bemoaning that you were going to get fired," Flowers pointed out.

"Shuddup. Besides, that's one problem fixed. Gotta get the troops in order before the visit."

"You mean the prisoners?"

"Yes. Them."

"I can do that for you. I'm not going to brainwash them, don't worry."

"If this is another one of your pep talks where you talk about bear hugs..." Sarge started.

Flowers smiled cheerfully. "As much fun as those are, no. Not at all like that."

* * *

_How long has it been? Five days, six days, a week?_

O'Malley was curled up in the corner of his solitary cell, staring at the juice box he'd been keeping the pills in. He wasn't sure how many he had in there, or even what the pills were for. Mental problems, no doubt, considering that he was getting the pills from people who worshiped a flag. But there was a good amount of them.

_It might not have been a week. Does it matter? Arrgh, I can't think... Can't remember._

O'Malley still felt terrible, but he was starting to feel slightly better. To say that was, of course, to say 'getting hit by a train isn't quite as bad as being thrown into a volcano.' His head still throbbed and occasionally O'Malley would feel giant waves of nausea that made him retch up the majority of the food he injested. O'Malley clasped his head, trying to make the throbbing go away with sheer force of will. It didn't work. It was hard to judge the days. They were just a blur of angry, red thumping. Punctuated occasionally by the zealot throwing juice boxes full of pills at his cell.

He shook the juice box once, hearing the pills rattling around inside. It had to be enough.

_I almost hope Doc isn't back yet. There is no chance that he can treat an overdose._

O'Malley pulled apart the juice box, letting the colourful pills spill into his hand. He didn't know how much would be required to overdose. If he swallowed all of them, there was a good chance he'd kick the bucket before the guards found him. Actually, that was a possibility regardless of how many he took. He couldn't even remember which ones were his and which belonged to the other zealots.

O'Malley frowned before tipping a third of the pills back into the box. He wouldn't get to find Doc again if he was dead. And while dying might be interesting, he had other things to do. A bit of a risk was interesting. Blatant suicide was just stupid.

O'Malley tossed the juice box aside before gazing down at the small pile of pills remaining. After a few moments of contemplation, he quickly shoved them in his mouth and swallowed them. Then he picked up his empty food tray, which had been sitting there for a couple of hours, and started bashing it against the wall. Trying to attract attention from the guards.

"O' mighty prophet? Why are you creating a racket?" the Red Zealot shouted from his cell.

"Does it matter? Just help me with it, you fool! Make noise!"

Pretty soon, the cells were filled with noise. It was like a chain reaction. O'Malley started it, the zealots followed him in making noise, and then the other inmates started yelling at them to shut up, thus causing even more noise. If a guard was approaching, O'Malley couldn't hear it over all the noise.

There was still time, though. It didn't feel like the pills were doing anything. O'Malley felt just fine, the pills were probably garbage anyway. They were probably following Doc's old instructions, meant the pills were either the wrong medicine or something else entirely. Considering Doc's medical skill, they could have mixed up the pills with... skittles or something.

The noise sure was making his head hurt, though. And sure, his vision was a little blurry, but...

What was that?

O'Malley dropped the tray, looking around. He thought he'd heard something. A voice. Sounded familiar. He knew that voice. But there was more than one. And he kept... seeing little things out of the corners of his eyes, but if he tried to look at them, they vanished.

What's happening? No, it's just the medicine... Just the medicine...

* * *

"Hey, what's all the noise about?" York shouted.

"Buncha idiots smashing their lunch trays against the wall!" one of the other inmates roared back. "Shut them up!"

York walked along the cells, and most of the inmates slowly quieted down. But there was still a large amount of tray smashing going on in a few of them. York decided that the quicker approach was probably smarter, and so he actually used the keys instead of picking the locks. He pushed open the door and quickly snatched the lunch tray away from the Red Zealot.

"What was the point of that?" York muttered, about to close the door again when the zealot spoke up.

"I don't know, gatekeeper. But our prophet ordered us to do it, and his word is law second only to that of His Holy Flappiness."

York frowned. "Prophet?"

"He whose hair is of the sacred colour."

York jammed a thumb in the direction of O'Malley's cell. "You mean O'Malley?"

"The prophet's given name is of no concern to us followers of the almighty cloth," the Red Zealot said after a few moments of pause. York left the zealot's cell, slamming the door shut, before locating the keys to O'Malley's one.

There was no thumping coming from his cell.

York shoved open the door to find O'Malley lying on the floor in a heap. He was awake. He looked normal at first glance, other than the odd choice of position, until York saw that his pupils were dilated and he was starting to flush like a burnt lobster. O'Malley stared at the ceiling with wide, almost terrified eyes, mumbling incoherently.

"They're... s'posed... dead, jussa... medicine," he said, his eyes fixed at a certain point of the wall.

York opened his mouth to ask what O'Malley was doing when he noticed something on the floor. A juice box that had been torn open. York bent down to examine it and saw an array of pills scattered inside and around it.

"You didn't. You... Argh, you idiot..." he muttered. "Guess I have to take you up there... Don't know how Wash is going to handle this."

York reached out to pull O'Malley to his feet. O'Malley was still focused on the walls. His eyes flickered to York's face for just a moment.

"D'ju... hear... thing?" he asked so quietly that York had to strain his ears.

"Nothing but—guys, stop banging those trays against the wall!" York shouted. "Nothing but that."

"Good."

However, as he was dragged towards the infirmary he kept glancing behind him, and occasionally muttering something.

York distinctly heard him tell someone named 'Gary' to go away.


	91. Chapter 85: High

**Chapter Eighty-Five: High**

O'Malley wasn't regretting his decision. Being out of that tiny cell was worth any inconvenience. But he didn't need ghosts following him around.

He couldn't see them if he was looking, of course, but he knew they were there. Not just Gary. Other people were there, too. Many of them were ones he couldn't remember the names of. Like patients he'd accidentally killed. Then there were a few that he could attach names to. But Gary seemed the loudest. Even though he kept speaking in that same flat, quiet tone.

"Omega. Knock knock."

"Shut up," O'Malley growled. This got a strange glance from York, who was still dragging him along to the infirmary. Not that O'Malley needed to be dragged. He knew the way to the infirmary, he'd be able to get there himself if the lights weren't so bright and blurry all of a sudden.

It was also very warm. Someone must be mucking around with the heat.

"Did you hear me? I said knock knock."

"Go away, Gary."

"Knock knock."

"I said go away."

"Knock knock."

"Will you leave if I play along with your stupid jokes?"

"Yes."

"Urgh, fine. Who's there?"

"Sid."

"Sid who?"

"Sid down and have a cup of tea."

O'Malley groaned. "Ugh. Either my imagination can't come up with anything better or you've gotten a lot worse at those jokes. Wyoming would probably like that one. Now go away."

"...Knock knock."

"Should have known you were lying."

York pushed open a door. "Wash! We got a problem here. I think he overdosed on his medication, there were a bunch of pills scattered on his cell floor."

The only reply to this was silence.

"Wash? Hello?"

"I can't treat an overdose." Wash's reply was short and cold. Of course it was. "Don't have the training. Suppose we'll just have to let him die. Very sad."

"He hasn't gotten over it, has he?" Gary said conversationally.

"Some people just can't let things go," O'Malley muttered back. Room was too bright. He couldn't really see much, just blurry figures. Legs felt weird. Didn't want to hold him. Like being supported by stringy cheese.

"Wash, you can't just let him die. They'll know if you did."

"There's nothing I can do. If anyone is going to be blamed, it'll either be Sarge for assigning me as doctor or the Dakota twins for not keeping a proper eye on the medication they were delivering."

"Then call the hospital."

"They won't take him. Not after the last time."

O'Malley chuckled. "Ah, that was fun. Could have gone without the taste. Never did see what was so exciting about cannibalism. Human flesh tastes disgusting. Not at all like chicken. Meta lied about that. I think..."

"The growls were a little bit difficult to decipher," Gary reminisced.

"Actually, I will try to help," Wash said suddenly. "But, uh... this could be unpleasant, York. Might want to wait somewhere else. Far away from the infirmary, you know?"

"You're going to do something violent, aren't you?" York sighed.

"Why would you think that?"

"Because that's your solution to everything!"

"Not everything. It's just quick and efficient much of the time. Look, it's just better if you stay away. Trust me on this."

York rubbed his forehead for a moment before sighing. "I'll be back in five minutes. Please don't kill anyone."

"I'll try."

York let go of O'Malley and left, the door shutting behind him. O'Malley probably would have overbalanced and fallen over within a few seconds, but Wash roughly grabbed him and shoved him onto an empty cot. O'Malley tried looking properly at Wash, to see just how mad he was, but it was still too bright and all he could see was a blurry figure. He could see another blurry figure lying on the other cot, but that one wasn't saying anything.

"How high are you right now, exactly?" Wash said coolly.

"I'm seeing dead people, Washington. That's fairly out there."

"You could be seeing purple elephants," Gary said quietly.

"Be quiet."

"I guess this is a good a time to ask as any."

"Oh, we're not going through this again, are we?" O'Malley sighed. "So repetitive."

"Shut up unless you've got something relevant to say." The blurry figure that was Wash sat down in front of him. O'Malley could feel the intense stare, even if he couldn't see it. "...Where is he?"

"Who? I don't know what you're talking about," O'Malley said, grinning. "I'm sorry, the pills seemed to have... wiped that part of my mind clean. I do recall the question being asked before, but gee... I just can't remember the answer."

"Don't play dumb with me. Seriously. Don't. ...You realise it wouldn't take much for me to kill you right now, don't you? You think anyone would care? With your track record, if I said I had to defend myself against you trying to, say, bite my fingers off or stab me with a scalpel, they'd believe me."

"I'm sure that's possible, yes." O'Malley grinned. "You're the doctor at the moment, are you? I guess it's reasonable enough that I'd attack you. I wouldn't, of course. I'm not stupid. Crazy, yes. Stupid? That's more debatable."

"Answer the question."

"What question?"

"Where is he? Where's the Alpha?"

"I may be high as a kite, Washington. But I'm not that out of it."

"He might have better luck with a more subtle approach," Gary remarked.

"Gamma says you're as subtle as a jackhammer."

* * *

Donut sat as still as possible on the cot from the moment York dragged O'Malley in. Trying to stay frozen so maybe the psychopath wouldn't notice him. Or would at least simply consider him part of the scenery. As important and fun to torture as the kitchen sink.

It didn't really matter. O'Malley seemed focused (sort of) on Wash. If not focused on Wash, he tended to address his comments to thin air. Combined with the dilated pupils, flushed appearance and even more excessive twitching than usual, he looked pretty deranged. Closest Donut had seen was this crazy hobo he'd come across once.

Donut was trying his best to stay both still and quiet. But just seeing O'Malley again made him want to scream. Just hearing that voice... as slurred and occasionally incomprehensible as it was at the moment... made him want to run for the hills, because every single time O'Malley spoke it felt like the side of Donut's head hurt. Like his missing ear was giving him phantom pains.

"Where is he? Where's the Alpha?"

And seriously, what was Wash on about now? What the hell is an Alpha? It did kind of sound like Meta. And Wash had only agreed to 'treat' O'Malley once he mumbled something about the Meta. How did O'Malley know Meta, anyhow? If Maine and Meta really were the same person, anyhow. This was too confusing, it was making Donut's head hurt.

"I mebbe high... kite, ishton," O'Malley mumbled. "But not... daddout it." At least that's what it sounded like he was saying. Then O'Malley paused for a moment and added, "Gamma says... yer subtle jackhammer."

Wash raised an eyebrow. "Gamma? ...Won't tell me where he is, either?"

"Dead. Kaboosh." O'Malley made exploding motions with his hands. "Goats. Just... goats now."

"Either tell me where the Alpha is or who he is. Don't care which. Tell me or I hit you. Really hard."

O'Malley sat still for a few moments, head tilted, before erupting into full-blown laughter. Maybe he was just laughing at something only he could see. But after laughing for a while, he said, "Yer... unobserr... eh. Ish amusing."

Wash's eyes narrowed before he pulled back his fist and then smashed it into O'Malley's stomach. Donut couldn't help but let a yelp escape, and quickly covered his mouth. Wash glanced back at Donut.

"Anyone asks, I was trying to get him to throw up the pills," Wash said.

"Sure. Won't hear anything out of me, I won't say a word," Donut babbled quickly. O'Malley frowned before his eyes finally landed on Donut. He squinted a bit, but didn't actually say anything. Donut stayed still, fixing his eyes on his cot and wishing he could do more than hide underneath the blankets. That wouldn't protect him.

"Urgh. Guess I promised York I'd try something legitimate. Can't question you if you're dead, anyway," Wash muttered. "Where'd they put the phone?" He glanced around the temporary infirmary. "Must have left it in the proper one."

"Ishton. Washton. Waishingon," O'Malley said, apparently a bit stuck on Wash's name. "David?"

* * *

O'Malley watched Wash look around the room. His stomach hurt a lot after that punch (Wash sure could swing his fists hard) and he generally felt like shit. But now he was just glad to be out of that solitary cell. And being in the room with someone who was so easy to annoy as Wash was a bonus. Even if Wash insisted on asking the same questions he'd asked when O'Malley was first locked up.

"Washington. Washington," O'Malley repeated, grinning, as Wash glanced around the room. "Washington." No reaction. So O'Malley switched names. "David?" That immediately made Wash twitch angrily.

"Be quiet."

"Or what, David?" O'Malley emphasized the name that time, smiling wider. "You'll hit me again? You can only get so far with brute force. Brute force doesn't stop you from cowering like a little girl in the dark, David."

When O'Malley said that last sentence, Wash immediately turned around and punched O'Malley square in the face. There was another yelp from the corner of the room, from the other blurry figure that O'Malley couldn't quite make out.

"Shut. Up," Wash snarled. O'Malley just cackled. He felt a bit dizzy, but that was probably the punch to the face. Wash turned back around, still staring around the room. "No phone. Need to get it from the infirmary. Don't do anything while I'm gone."

"Wait, wait, wait, you can't leave me here alone! Not with him!" the other figure yelled, panic filling his voice.

"Tough luck. Consider it an incentive for not lying to me, next time I ask about Meta."

"I wasn't lying! No, come on, don't... please?!"

Wash strolled out of the room. Leaving just O'Malley and whoever was sitting on the cot over there.

He squinted at the figure some more. Too blurry. Couldn't make it out. All he could really see was a mess of brown hair.

Doc had brown hair. Doc was a wuss. Doc hated being left alone in the same room as O'Malley. Could it... what would Doc be doing on an infirmary cot? Why would he be a patient instead of the doctor? Did O'Malley care at the moment?

No, he did not. Having a crappy hallucination of Doc was better than no Doc at all.

"Your standards haven't gone down at all," Gary said flatly.

"I'll assume that was a lie." O'Malley grinned before clinging to the cot, trying to pull himself to his feet. Wasn't working too well. "Hello, Doc. Has anything interesting happened since you ran off?"

"...What?"


	92. Flashback: Chapter Six

**A/N: Apologise for the wait again, but in fairness this is a really long chapter that required a lot of editing, plus I got a new computer that I don't quite understand yet and also the internship and not enough sleep and things. This was one of the most challenging chapters on my list of chapters I needed to edit, though, so hopefully they'll be more speed after this.  
**

**Flashback – Part Six**

"This is stupid."

"It's not stupid, Leonard."

"No, it is. It's the stupidest plan ever. Why the fuck are we going to a nightclub?"

"Why not? Club Errera is very fashionable."

"I could be sleeping, and I don't want to leave Eddie by himself for too long..."

"Eddie's sixteen, Leonard. He'll be fine."

Church was attempting to go back to the car, while Sigma dragged him towards the club with an iron grip. He didn't look strong, but damn he had fingers of steel.

"You don't know that. Besides, I hate fucking nightclubs."

"Have you ever been to a nightclub?"

"So what if I haven't? I haven't had anyone stick one of those clampy electric things to my balls, either. Don't have to experience it to know it's fucking painful." Church scowled at the bright sign. "Why are we here, seriously?"

"For fun?"

"No such thing. This is balls. Couldn't you bring Delta?"

"Delta refused. He doesn't like any intoxicants. Out of the others... Theta doesn't drink and it would feel strange getting him to do so. I tried with Omega once but I'm fairly certain he kidnapped one of the girls he chatted up there. Gamma always sneaks off and leaves me with the tabs of five other strangers, Meta scares people and Epsilon is too young." Sigma stopped dragging Church for a moment. "I'll let you put all your drinks on my tab."

Church considered this. "...All of them?"

"Every last drop."

"...Deal."

Despite the promise of free liquor, Church still tried to slip out multiple times. Including one attempt at climbing out the bathroom window. Sigma caught him each time and quickly started dragging him around with his steel grip again. So Church reluctantly followed him around, clinging onto a glass of whiskey that tasted like paint thinner, and only prevented from falling asleep on his feet by the music, which was so loud Church swore it was making the empty chairs nearby bleed.

Pity. Church could have used a nap. He wasn't getting enough sleep lately. Granted, he didn't have to take care of Eddie constantly, since he was now old enough to at least cook on his own. Actually, he was a much better cook than Church, who had a tendency to burn everything. But he still didn't like to leave Eddie at home by himself, or at Delta's house for that matter. Not to mention business had been really busy and despite Delta's promise that he'd eventually find a new 'leader,' it hadn't been done yet.

Church didn't mind that, to be honest. He'd gotten used to his criminal lifestyle by now. Besides, shooting ineffectually at other criminals and transporting illegal goods was basically his only skill set. Couldn't put that on a resume. Finding a legitimate job would be too difficult. So he told himself, anyhow.

Delta probably knew he wasn't planning on running off anytime soon. He'd at least relented enough to let Church and Eddie move out of his house. It was a bit cramped having them, Sigma, Theta and Delta all living under one roof. But on the other hand, it meant Eddie was left at home by himself quite regularly, and Church just wasn't comfortable about it. He still half expected the police from back home to kick the door down.

"You're rather uptight. Is something wrong? Would a drink or a lady help? Or a man, if that's what you're into?"

"Fuck off, Sigma."

"Don't be like that." Sigma looked around briefly before his gaze settled on two women sitting nearby, one red-haired and one blonde, having what looked like a rather heated discussion. Sigma smiled slightly and gestured. "What about the blonde girl?"

"Oh sure, pick the girls having a bitch fit at each other."

"It's not a barrier." Sigma dragged Church over and addressed the blonde woman rather brusequely. "Hello. Have you met my friend?" He pushed Church into the chair next to her before addressing the redhead. "I'd like a word." And without another word, he practically scooped the redhaired woman out of her chair and carted her off.

The whole process had taken about three seconds. Church and the blonde woman were left there, wondering what the hell had just happened.

"What the fuck?" Church muttered. The blonde woman shrugged before taking a long swig of beer.

"Not a clue. I think your friend just kidnapped my sister. I'm not sure."

"Uh..." Confronted rather abruptly with a woman, and given that the woman was kind of hot and Church had barely spoken to anything female in his life (his job didn't really allow for that) Church was left feeling awkward. "Uh... I can go get her back."

"She'll be fine. Besides, not like she was saying anything unusual." The blonde woman made a yakking motion with her hand. "Mostly stuff about 'rejoining the family business' and 'Dad won't stop talking about you, why do you hog his attention without being there' and blah blah blah. Family issues, you know?"

"Yeah, uh... totally know."

The blonde woman shrugged again before gesturing at Church's whiskey. "Any good?"

"Only if you like the taste of paint thinner," Church answered back.

"Hm. Screw it, then. Beer is good." The woman tapped her chin and grinned evilly. "Although... there's a drink they serve here. Not sure what the ingredients are, they just call it an Errera Special. Glows just like the neon sign, will knock you out within three seconds... if you're not man enough for it."

Church raised an eyebrow. "You challenging my manhood?"

"Big time. Drinking contest. First to tap out, pass out or vomit loses."

"You're on. I'll stick it on my friend's tab." Sigma was probably not going to approve, but fuck it, he dragged Church there. "What's your name, by the way? I'd like to know whose ass I'm kicking."

"Tex."

"That's a guy's name."

"So? I'm more manly than you."

"That has yet to be decided! So, to the bar?"

* * *

"That could have been done more gracefully," Carolina muttered under her breath.

"I went with the quickest solution. It worked fine. Besides, I'm sure my young friend will appreciate Tex's company."

"Hmph. Tell me, that 'friend' of yours isn't like Omega, is he? Is he the sort to woo girls back to his home and then cut them up and sell their organs on the black market?"

"Not at all."

"Hm. Almost a pity."

"Tension?" Sigma asked.

"Nothing new. Didn't want to see her anyway. York thought it'd be good for me." Carolina rolled her eyes as she said this. Nothing was ever good where Tex was involved. All she ever did was kick things and then run off and spend all her life undoing the sorts of things the rest of the family had done for a living.

"I see. Is he around?"

"He's at the bar. He'll be back in a few minutes. Which means we're short on time." Carolina knew that they probably had longer than that. It was difficult for York to attract the bartender's attention and acquire drinks when there were a large amount of pretty girls vying for drinks at the same time. York often complained about only being able to get drinks quickly at a gay bar.

"Then please, sit."

They both sat down at a booth far from the table Carolina had been previously at.

"It's a special occasion when you actually want to talk to me, Carolina." Sigma settled back on his chair and smiled politely. "I assume you have something important to say?"

Carolina crossed her arms and leaned back on her seat. "Here's the facts. You have one more chance to surrender or to sell out your co-workers. If you don't, you go down with them."

"Oh. This again."

"I shouldn't even be giving you this chance. But it could fix this much quicker."

Sigma also settled back on his chair, mirroring Carolina's stance exactly. "What makes you think I would sell out Delta, exactly?"

"Why wouldn't I think that? Third time's the charm, isn't it? What's the difference between this and screwing over the Director or... that other guy?"

"You shot 'that other guy' in the face yourself, Carolina. You should learn to be courteous and at least recall the names of the people you murder," Sigma told her.

"Look who's developed courtesy. You decided to develop some decent traits, then? That where this new loyalty came from?"

"I have the capacity to be loyal, Carolina. I just don't exercise that capacity on anyone who doesn't deserve it," Sigma said calmly. "Delta is much more intelligent than his father—"

"Meaning he actually listens to you? Allowing you to..." Carolina dangled her fingers in the air, miming as if she was controlling a puppet.

Sigma didn't answer. He just looked upwards at the ceiling and stayed silent.

Carolina's frowned deepened. "This really is the last chance. You walk away from this and you're signing your own death warrant. No. More. Games. You've all been a thorn in the Director's side for too long."

Sigma raised an eyebrow but still didn't reply.

"You give them up now, and you might get to live," Carolina continued, after waiting a few moments for a response.

"If I'm such a backstabbing weasel, then why have you chosen to give me an exit?" Sigma questioned.

It was Carolina's turn to hesitate. After a long pause, she said, "Old partnerships are hard to forget."

"Aren't they?"

A minute of silence passed by, before Sigma climbed to his feet.

"If that's all you had to say... then I think I'll take my leave. Before your husband comes back and thinks the worst."

"York wouldn't think—"

"Wouldn't think what, Carolina? There's nothing bad for him to assume... but then again, who could tell? Given that you spend most of your life lying to him, maybe he'd mistake the momentary truthfulness for a lying disposition?"

Carolina only had time to splutter and yell, "Screw you!" By that time, Sigma had already disappeared amongst the other club patrons. Carolina sighed and rubbed her forehead. She took a glance at the bar and saw that Sigma had left just in time. York had finally managed to purchase some drinks and was making his way over, occasionally pausing to dance cheerfully to the music while somehow not spilling alcohol all over himself.

"Whiskey for you," he said once he reached her. "Made them put a little umbrella in. My way of showing that I care. And part of my making silly demands to the bartender as punishment for keeping me waiting for so long. But mostly the caring thing. Here you go." He passed it to her.

"Thanks, York."

"You look upset. Something wrong? Too noisy? They do blast the music loud, don't they?"

"No, I just... I have a lot of work due tomorrow, I suppose I was stuck thinking about it."

Technically she wasn't lying. But she wasn't telling York the whole truth, either, and after Sigma's parting words the lie tasted bitter in her mouth.

"Eh, forget about it for now. Come on, finish up that drink and we'll dance. As I recall, you had some really kicking moves." York grinned widely and waved around his strawberry daiquiri as he talked. "I remember seeing it the first time as if it were yesterday—"

Carolina smiled slightly, even as she said, "Don't start reminiscing out loud, that's for old men in rocking chairs."

"The point is. Dancing. Come on."

"Alright. As I recall, you had some decent moves yourself. You still do that spinning step thing?"

Carolina pushed Sigma out of her mind for now. It didn't matter tonight. And after tomorrow it wouldn't matter at all.

* * *

Church could only assume he'd lost the drinking game, because he couldn't remember anything past his third Errera Special the next morning. In the early hours of the morning, he got woken up by Eddie hammering on his door.

"We're out of eggs! All we have is stale toast! Can I go and get some food from the shops?"

Church groaned. It felt like little dwarves were attacking the inside of his head with hammers.

"Don't worry about it, I'll go grab some—aaaagh! Fuck!"

It had taken Church a few seconds to notice that, holy crap, there was a naked lady in his bed. ...That was different.

"What's up?"

"Nothing! You know what? You can go get food. But be back in the next fifteen minutes!" Church yelled through the door. Tex clasped a pillow over her ears and muttered for him to stop fucking shouting.

"Okay?" Church heard his footsteps plod away. A minute later, he heard the front door slam. Tex sat up, glancing around the room.

"Huh. I must have been pretty fucking drunk to follow you home," she said. She didn't sound too disturbed. Mostly dismissive. "But I don't think that shouting was necessary. I mean, seriously. You wake up next to me and your first words are 'aaaaaaagh, fuck?' I hope you're not implying anything about my looks there."

"No. ...No, no, no. No." Church glanced at Tex then quickly looked away again. Last (and first) naked woman he'd seen had been that weird hobo lady who lived in a nearby alleyway. Had to cover Eddie's eyes whenever they went past her. So, this was basically the first time he'd seen a woman naked without wanting to tear his eyes out afterwards. "Uh... Shit. I... What happened?"

"The details are a bit blurry. But you invited me here. Something about me having a, and I quote, 'slamming tushie.'"

"Bullshit. I would not use the word tushie."

"Things didn't go that well once we got here, though. Again, blurry details, but you definitely had a bad case of 'whiskey dick.'" Tex was grinning a little as she said that.

"Of... Ah, fuck." Church covered his face. "Greeeeat. I'm just gonna try and forget this ever happened."

"That works. You got anything for headaches?"

"Yeah."

"By the way, you said your name was Leonard. That isn't what it says on your driver's licence. It says Ritchie Kerk on it."

"When the fuck did you even see my licence?"

"Okay, so I may have gone through your wallet. All that whiskey was expensive, and your friend's bribe didn't nearly cover it. I didn't take anything, changed my mind once I realised I couldn't sneak out without your kid seeing me."

"You robbed me?"

"I was going to rob you. Huge difference. Anyway. What's with the name?"

"Leonard is... my middle name. Seriously, would you want to be referred to as Ritchie?"

"Point taken."

* * *

Tex left about fifteen minutes later, passing Eddie on the way out. Eddie placed a bag of eggs, bread and, for some reason, paint (he'd picked up Sigma's artsy habits, though not to such a ridiculous extent) on the table, which Church was also resting his face on. Now sixteen years old, Eddie looked exactly like a miniature Church. Not to mention he'd developed some uncouth vocal patterns to match.

"You actually brought a girl home. I am fucking amazed," he said.

"Shut up. And don't swear."

"But... you swear."

"I'm older. I got the motherfucking right."

"Bullshit."

"Eddie!"

"What? Don't act like you're offended. What are you, my mother?"

"I might as well be!" Church paused, then added, "In a more masculine way. Father figure. Not mother figure. Anyway, I have to do some work with the others today. You stay in the house. Don't leave it. Seriously, don't. Almost had a heart attack last time."

"I just went out to get some snacks! They had some kickass movies on television..."

"No. Just... don't leave, alright?"

"You definitely got something wooden up your butt," Eddie muttered.

"Hey! Do not."

"I'm not the one who said it. It was... Meta, I think."

"Meta speaks in growls, how can you even fucking tell?"

"Can I help with your work this time?"

"Not until Hell freezes over. Fuck it, even if Hell freezes over, you're still not helping."

"Oh, come on! I've got a codename and everything!"

"I don't fucking care, you're not coming with us. You can watch Delta do all the computer shit, can even help with that if you want, but you're not following us."

"But... you're always doing loads of stuff, and I never do anything useful. I'm a useless sack of shit in comparison."

"You're not a sack of horseshit. If anything, doing the kind of violent shit we do would turn you into a shitsack. And if we're caught doing all this... Look, just don't do it."

"Great. Don't do this, don't do that. That's all you ever fucking say, Leo." Eddie pulled a face at him. "You get angry and antsy over everything. You freak out when I leave the house without telling you, even if it's just getting groceries or something, for fuck's sake. What are you afraid of, honestly? You still scared the police from... from back home are gonna find us?"

"I'm just a bit iffy about the police finding us at all. And if the police do catch us, I don't want you being implicated or anything. Plus, it's fucking dangerous out there!"

"So, what?"

"Look, I don't have time to fucking argue, alright? Just stay here."

Eddie scowled for a moment before muttering, "Fine." He sat at the table, arms crossed. "Guess if you're actually bringing another human being home, then it's a step towards getting less paranoid and shit. Is she going to be back?"

"I dunno. We did trade numbers, but only as part of a bet. She thinks I look like the clingy type, and we bet that the other one would call first. So if I call her, I lose twenty dollars. If both of us keep going with the bet, then we'll never see each other again."

"That's kinda lame."

"It seemed smart at the time."

* * *

"Alpha?"

"Oh god, what?"

"Showing up hungover is highly irresponsible of you," Delta muttered.

"Fuck off. Besides, it's Sigma's fault."

"Did I tell you to get into a drinking contest?" Sigma asked in a mildly defensive tone, as he tossed an empty box out of the back of the van.

"You're the one who dragged me to her!"

"A girl, you say? One who could hold her liquor?" Omega grinned slyly as he tossed another box out of the van. "How was she? Supple organs?"

"I didn't carve her up, weirdo!"

"This is not the time for quarreling and comparisons of organs and psychotic behavior. I want your full concentration on this."

"Okay, okay. How many people are we killing?" Church sighed.

"The information I have collected suggests there will be between eight and fourteen men in the warehouse alone. It is almost certain that they will have men hiding in the buildings surrounding the warehouse, but Meta will clear them out. He does have an innate ability to detect them."

"I swear that freak is half-bulldog," Omega muttered. Delta opened his mouth, but Sigma interrupted him with, "Yes, I know it's physically impossible for a human to breed with a bulldog. Do you ever not take things literally?."

"Oh." Delta looked down at his notes. "There are two entrances. Alpha, Gamma, you two shall attack from the back. The amount of people should be thinner there, and you can catch them from behind, which will... make up for any shooting deficiencies."

"If by shooting deficiencies you mean 'can't hit anything if it's two feet from his face,'" O'Malley said, grinning at Church.

"Shut up."

"Sigma and Omega will take the other entrance head-on. Theta will sneak in through one of the higher windows and shoot from above."

Theta was fiddling with a sniper rifle almost as big as he was. He didn't reply apart from a slight nod, more focused on his gun.

"For the rest of you, there should be cover within the warehouse. Find it as soon as possible. Meta will join you all in the warehouse once he has finished with the surrounding buildings. Once they have all been terminated, Omega and Gamma will initiate clean-up."

"Excellent. I need more bodies. Good for business," O'Malley said cheerfully.

"Creepy," Church muttered.

"...You would sell well on the organ market."

"No threats," Delta said shortly. "You five will travel using the clean-up van. Me and Meta shall take the other van, and we can place the goods in there afterwards. Make sure your phones are set to silent. However, I will only call if there is a problem. No time to waste. Move out to your assigned vehicles."

* * *

"Are you sure they're going to show up? We've been waiting for ages," Wash muttered. He was sitting in the corner of the room, fiddling with his gun.

"If they don't show up in the next hour, then I'll assume this was a set-up," Carolina said dryly. She was seated at the window, staring down at the warehouse in the next block. "But our information is from an insider. They'll be here."

"That's what you said the last time. We ended up chasing some guy who just happened to have the name 'Derek Sterling' across half the city before figuring out it was the wrong guy."

"That was a misfire," Carolina muttered, her teeth gritted.

"Misfire. Right."

"When I get foiled by a six-year-old and a man holding a paintball gun, then you can complain."

"Hey! Not in front of South," Wash whispered, glancing at the third member of their group, seated in the other corner.

"Paintball gun, Wash? How the hell?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," Wash mumbled, going slightly pink and focusing on the opposite wall.

"But now I want to know. Seriously, in what context does someone wield a paintball gun in this job? And how does it beat bullets?" South grinned at Wash. "Come on, tell me. I want to picture how stupid it was."

"Carolina, she's being mean," Wash said.

"What are you, five? You just be mean back," Carolina said absently, still peering down at the street. She wondered if her attempt to convince Sigma to turn himself in had made him suspicious and prevented them from showing up today.

"Why are you even here, South? You're not high up enough for such a complicated job. I've been on the job for a decade and I barely scraped in!"

"I have credentials."

"Being a bouncer doesn't count!"

"Both of you, quiet!" Carolina snapped, turning around to glare at them.

Wash went silent immediately, but South protested, "Well, why's he questioning my right to be on this mission?"

"South, shut up or you'll be demoted."

"You can't do—"

"Can't I? Now be quiet!"

South went quiet, but with a scowl on her face. Carolina turned back, shaking her head. South was really too hot-headed for this, but they just didn't have enough soldiers. Wash was reliable enough despite his dopier moments, anyway. He'd be able to keep her in check.

At last, she saw a van turn into the street. "I see one of the targets." She watched the van pull up a block from the warehouse. "It's parking right where the informant said it would. All the others should be in place. The report says there will be one man scanning the surrounding area. Kill him. If anyone's in the van itself, try to catch them alive. But shoot if you have no other choice."

Wash and South nodded.

"Move out. And no arguing!"

"South started it," Wash grumbled.

"Did not. I just wanted to hear the paintball story."

* * *

It didn't seem like a difficult plan at first. However, when they slipped into the warehouse, there was one key component of the assignment missing. Namely, the people they were supposed to be shooting.

Church and Gamma were left standing in an empty part of the warehouse.

"The fuck? There's no-one here," Church muttered quietly. Gary didn't say anything. He just glanced around, looking calm as always. Church made a signal for the others to stop, though he couldn't see them from where he was. He saw a tiny red light flickering along the walls, the only sign of Theta's presence in the room.

Sigma stuck his head out from the other side of the warehouse. He shrugged. Even he looked mildly bemused. Church shrugged right back before scanning the room. His eyes landed on the railings that led to the office on the second floor. He thought he saw a glimpse of black. He waved his hand at Sigma to attract attention and then gestured at the room. Sigma nodded and ducked back to discuss this development with O'Malley.

As he did this, Church suddenly noticed that the red light from Theta's sniper rifle was no longer sweeping the room. It'd been cut off.

It clicked. The suspiciously empty room, any signs of Theta vanishing, the glimpse of black—the same black as the balaclavas and outfits worn by the Director's men...

"Shit, we've been set up!" Church muttered. "Get out!" He signalled at the others to do the same, but as he did there was a shout behind him.

"Freeze!" Someone shouted out from behind Church. Three men holding guns and wearing the same black outfits were suddenly behind him. He saw four move out behind the others and several more pour out of the second-floor office and head down the stairs.

"Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air. We will not hesitate to gun you down." That voice came from one of the ones who had just moved out of the office. Church recognised that voice. Carolina. There had been a couple of narrow calls over the years with her. Never as close as that first time with Jimmy. But there had been close shaves.

This time, however? Probably fucked.

"I said drop your weapons!" Carolina snapped. Gary immediately dropped his. Self-preservation first. Church sighed and dropped his. O'Malley refused at first, only when one of the men behind him smacked him over the head did he drop his weapon. Sigma lowered his but didn't drop it. He just shut his eyes in a slightly weary way.

"Ah. This explains it," Sigma murmured. Carolina pointed her gun at him.

"It does, doesn't it? Can't say I didn't warn you." Carolina looked between the four that were gathered. "There's more than this, aren't there? One, two, three, four... five," she added, as two more of the Director's men entered the room. One was shoving Theta along, who looked like he was getting ready to cry. The other man was holding his sniper rifle. "Two more, then. I assume Delta's in his van. He doesn't step out into the field, does he?"

As Carolina spoke, Church felt the phone in his pocket vibrate. Delta was trying to call him. One of the surrounding men heard the buzzing and pointed a gun at him.

"Carolina, his phone's ringing."

Carolina turned her attention away from Sigma and looked at Church. Her face was obscured by the balaclava, apart from her eyes, mouth and the few strands of red hair that peeked through, but what little of her face he could see looked inexplicably amused as she studied him.

"I'd like to see her face if she knew what you were," Carolina muttered under her breath. Returning to her normal volume, she said, "Answer the phone. If it's one of your group, get them here. Try anything and you'll see my ugly side."

Church scowled. "Alright, alright. I got it, just hang on..."

* * *

Delta didn't notice anything amiss until just as the others were set to storm the warehouse. Considering that he was sitting in a small van rather than where any of the action was, he was reliant on others telling him when anything was off. As he was counting down the seconds until the attack began, his phone rang.

Delta answered the phone with, "Who is calling?"

There was a growl on the other end.

"Meta? What is your status?"

The response was a lot more growling.

"How could there be no-one there? The intel clearly states..."

A particularly harsh snarl interrupted him.

"Hm. We have clearly been set up. Or something is amiss. Sweep the area once more, but quickly." Delta hung up before dialling Alpha's number.

It took a worrying amount of time for Alpha to pick up. But he did eventually.

"Yeah?"

"I suspect we have been set up. Is everything in order, Alpha?"

"Don't worry about it, there's just a bunch of corpses now. We handled them. I killed, like... six, Theta killed four... usual stuff. Just drive the van up. Bring Meta and Epsilon with you, they can get started on clean-up. Alright?"

No. It was not 'alright.' Because it was a remarkable occasion when Church managed to hit anyone at all, let alone kill six people, and he would never allow Epsilon to play a part in any mission, let alone one so dangerous. He was clearly at gunpoint.

Delta quickly finished the conversation with a promise to show up and help carry stuff. He was planning on showing up, alright. But carrying stuff was not his intention. Delta started up the van.

As he pulled out as quickly as the van could manage, he thought he heard someone swear angrily.

* * *

"Dammit. I knew we should have sped up," Wash said angrily, as the van pulled out just as they came within eyeshot.

"What'll we do now?"

"I guess... we either sweep the area again or we head back to the warehouse and help out with that. Better sweep the area first."

South nodded before following him, keeping a hand close to her gun and a close watch behind her. Wash had his gun out, as well. He wasn't worried, since most of the smuggling group were in the warehouse, but still... never hurt to be careful.

"This way is clear."

"Okay, there's nothing behi—wait, no!" South fired off three bullets.

"What the fuck are—" Wash stopped speaking when he saw what South had been shooting at.

It was just one man. He was huge. A giant, bald wall of muscle. That wasn't what got Wash's attention, though. It was the fact that two of South's bullets hit him. And he just kept running towards them. He didn't even blink. Before South could fire again, the man had grabbed the gun out of her hand and tossed it aside before swinging one huge fist and punching her so hard that she went flying into Wash, knocking them both over.

Wash didn't get a chance to fire his own gun before the man had grabbed that, too. He hurled Wash's gun onto a roof before growling. A low, warning growl. Wash had never heard a grown man growl before. But he was half-convinced this was a wild animal as opposed to anything human.

He glanced sideways at South. She looked just as terrified as he felt.

"Don't panic. Don't panic," he muttered.

"You're the one panicking!"

"I'm not—look out!" The man leapt forward, elbowing Wash hard in the stomach before turning to South. Wash heard a crack and scream as he broke her arm like it was a twig.

They didn't stand a chance without weapons. Wash looked around, spotted South's gun on the ground. The man would never let them reach it, but if he was distracted... South couldn't distract him, so...

Wash tackled the man, trying to keep a hold around his neck. It was a lot like wrestling with a bull.

"Grab your gun! Grab it!" Wash yelled. South nodded, hurrying towards her gun as Wash attempted to keep the man distracted. It didn't work well. Every blow he threw, the man just dealt it back three times as hard.

As he tried punching his head in, Wash saw South pick the gun up, aim it carefully.

She hesitated.

"Don't hesitate, just shoot! Shoot!"

South shut her eyes briefly and, as the man swung around, trying to get Wash off him, fired. And hit Wash in the back.

"Ow, son of a—"

Wash landed on the ground hard. His last thought before things went dark was '_You have got to be fucking kidding me.'_

* * *

"Look. Here's the deal," South said shortly. She tried not to let any pain creep into her voice, even though her arm was twisted in a funny direction and starting to really hurt. She hadn't known if the giant would listen, but he seemed to have stopped for now. If only because he'd finally realised he'd been shot twice.

"You're probably working for those guys the Director wants wiped out. Well, I don't know anything about that. I don't even know how to contact the Director. But..." South nodded her head at Wash. "He knows. He's been around longer than I have. You can get information out of him.

"But I have to warn you... that shot to the back will probably kill him if you don't hurry. If you spend time chasing me-and trust me, I can run really fast-you're wasting valuable seconds. So, what's it going to be?"

The man snarled at her. South took a step back. But then he turned away from her and walked towards Wash.

"Good choice."

Before South bolted, she glanced back at Wash very briefly.

_Sorry, Wash. But it was either you or both of us._

* * *

Minutes ticked by. Carolina kept her gun pointed at Sigma's face. The others kept their guns aimed at everyone else.

Carolina glanced at her watch, then looked at Church. "You didn't tip him off, did you? Using some sort of secret code?"

"Where is he?" Carolina asked coldly. "You didn't tip him off, did you? Using some sort of secret code?"

"How could I come up with a code in three fucking seconds?" Church snapped back.

"There are a lot of codes you could have come up with."

"You heard the conversation, I didn't say shit."

"Oh yeah? So who's Epsilon? I only count six in here and I know who they all are. Is Epsilon with Delta? Or is he someone else?"

Church couldn't stop himself from looking nervous. Shit. He shouldn't have used Eddie's codename, but he didn't know how else to make sure Delta knew he was lying.

"So there is an Epsilon. Well, we'll find him as well. You're more important. Alpha. Sigma. Delta. Those are the names that come up most often. And I didn't even have a visual on you until—"

Carolina stopped abruptly. She tilted her head. Then Church heard it. The sound of an engine. Brrrrr-

And just a couple of seconds later, Delta's van went plummeting through the partially open garage door.

Church had to dive to the side to avoid being run over. Carolina rolled to the side to avoid it and quickly disappeared behind some crates. Church turned away to see Theta kick the guy who was holding his sniper rifle, wrenching it from his hands, and started firing at the enemy.

After that, there was just a hail of bullets flying in every direction. Church didn't bother shooting. He just crawled behind a stack of boxes. Gamma was right behind him. Over the noise, they could hear Delta yelling. Actually yelling.

"Get in the van!" Delta shouted, in between taking aim at the surrounding agents. Church had never seen Delta fire a gun before. He didn't seem to have as good a handle on it as Theta did, but it was enough to keep some of the agents pinned.

"Alright, hang on!" Church tried to crawl over to the van, though he had to scramble behind some more boxes to avoid another lot of bullets. Gamma was still behind him until there was a yell. Church turned to see a flash of red, as O'Malley got hit in the shoulder and dropped his weapon.

Gamma didn't show any expression, as usual, but he said, "Excuse me," in a tone suited more for excusing oneself from a nice meal instead of an angry gunfight, before trying to head over to O'Malley. Church didn't follow, he just headed to the van. Once he reached it, he crawled inside.

"We could use Meta's help here, where'd you leave him?" Church asked shortly, raising his voice over the gunshots.

"I do not know," Delta replied.

"Do you have a plan?"

"No. None. I have no clue what I am doing," Delta said, his words occasionally punctuated by shooting. "Where are the others?"

"Theta's over in the corner with his rifle, Gamma went to help Omega—jerk got shot, idiot—and I have no idea where the fuck Sigma—"

"I'm right here." Sigma climbed into the van. "This is an extreme situation, Delta. You should not have come here, you should have driven in the other direction. Drive now, while you still can."

"If you are suggesting I leave Theta behind—"

"He can look after himself, he's a crack shot. There's too many. And if you and Alpha go down, who leads?"

Delta looked sideways at Sigma, before saying, "I would prefer to stay. Theta may require my help."

"Theta's—" Sigma looked at Theta in time to see him stop firing, examine his rifle, and then retreat into hiding with a panicked look. "Okay, he's out of ammo. That's... detrimental."

Delta immediately moved to the door of the van and opened it. "Cover me," he said briefly, but before he could go out there Sigma grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Stay here. If something goes wrong, retreat. No matter what the head count is." Then he jumped out of the van himself and started weaving his way through the chaos towards Theta.

Gamma and Omega got back to the van in the time it took for Sigma to reach Theta. Omega was heavily bleeding from the shoulder, but he looked oddly excited.

"This is the most exciting thing that's ever happened in this little organization," he cackled, although the laugh was strained.

"Shut up." Church peered over his handgun as Sigma reached Theta and started to pull him back towards the van. Theta still looked scared, and was hugging his empty sniper rifle to his chest. Sigma just looked calm.

And that was when Carolina emerged from behind one of the crates. She held two pistols. She raised them both, aimed right at Sigma and Theta and fired all that she had in the clips. A bullet hit Theta in the leg, and he went tumbling to the ground. Sigma was not as lucky. He got hit with multiple bullets, including one that hit him square in the temple. He didn't hit the ground flailing and crying like Theta did. He just slumped over, dead.

Church's stomach twisted before it seemed to vanish completely. And then he caught a glimpse of Delta's face. His expression was as impassive as always, except that he'd gone chalk white and his normally cold, calculating eyes were suddenly blazing. He only saw it for a split second before Delta once again shoved the door open, and this time there was no-one who stopped him. He ignored everyone else that was still firing. He just made a beeline for Carolina.

She saw him coming, but she clearly hadn't counted on anyone doing something as suicidally stupid as leaving the shelter of the van in order to charge headlong into her. Maybe that's why she'd chosen the moment after Sigma's death to reload. It just gave Delta enough time to point his own gun right at her face.

"You don't want to—" Carolina started. No-one would know how she intended to finish that sentence, because Delta pulled the trigger and shot her. And then shot her again. And again. And again. At that range he couldn't even miss, and Carolina was soon on the ground. She didn't cry out. She just hit the ground. She could only twitch and try to crawl away, but Delta just kept shooting. When he ran out of bullets, and Carolina had stopped crawling, he just kept clicking the trigger.

He only stopped when Theta, reaching him despite the gun wound in his leg, grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back. Delta turned, his face still blank except for those blazing eyes, and helped Theta back to the van. Or maybe Theta was helping him, keeping him emotionally together just enough to keep going.

Church and Gamma covered the two as best as they could, but neither were good shots. The moment Delta and Theta were back in the van, Church climbed into the front seat and started the van. Delta was generally the driver, but he wasn't in any state to do it.

"Sigma," Delta said quietly. He reached out as if to open the door of the van again. Like he wanted to go out and bring Sigma back. Church shook his head.

"We have to leave him. We can't do shit for him now," Church said. He knew he was coming off as cold. But he needed to be. Bullets were still hitting the van, but most of them only left dents. Church didn't really notice. He just drove out of there as fast as he could. He felt numb. Blank.

There was no way that just happened. Not Sigma. Yes, Sigma was creepy and sometimes Church didn't like him that much, but... he was always there. Always there, always strangely calm and reassured of what they were doing. They'd never lost anyone but the occasional hired gun over the last decade, and suddenly... this happens?

Gamma was trying to staunch Omega's bleeding. Delta still looked blank, but he'd recovered enough to do the same to Theta, trying to wrap up the leg as best he could. Neither Delta nor Theta said anything. Theta wasn't crying, he just looked confused, like a small child who had found their goldfish floating upside down in the bowl and didn't understand what it meant.

Delta's phone rang. Delta ignored it, so Gamma reached over and picked it up.

"Hello? ...Go to where Delta dropped you off." Gamma hung up as Church turned into an alleyway. They waited a couple of minutes before Meta stuck his head over a fence, nodded and ducked down before pushing through the gate and heading towards the van. He was carrying something over his shoulder. A person. He climbed into the back of the van, dumping the man on the ground. He growled in a strangely proud way.

"What the fuck is that?" Church said tiredly.

Gamma looked over at the man for a moment, then reached over and pulled off the balaclava, revealing blond hair. Church glanced back from his place at the wheel and swore. "Shit, that's the guy!"

"Guy?" Gamma questioned.

"The guy! Uh, he... he was at Jimmy's place ten years ago. Si... Sigma shot him in the face with paint. I think he works with Carolina."

"Worked," Delta murmured, finally speaking. He looked downwards, hiding his face from view as he kept working on Theta's leg wound.

"God, why'd you bring him back, Meta?" Church muttered.

Meta growled again, as he tugged the first aid kit that Gamma and Delta were getting their supplies from a little bit towards him, and attempted to patch up the bullet wounds in his chest, though he was treating them like minor annoyances.

"We could torture him for information," O'Malley said. His voice was strained, probably because of the bullet, but there was an underlying tone of glee. "He might know where the Director is. Or something useful."

"Torture's fucked up," Church muttered.

Delta looked at the unconscious man for a few moments, his eyes still burning. Then he said two words. "Do it."

"What?" Church yelped.

"Dee, you can't do that," Theta whispered quietly. "It's... it's not nice."

"The time for niceties has long passed," Delta said flatly. "The Director needs to be removed, and that includes anyone that works for him. If we cannot find the Director through conventional means, then torture will do just as well."

Theta blinked a few times, then looked down and nodded.

"We need to change locations. If they locate Sigma's body, they will have the means to find our current home. Alpha, drive us to safehouse C."

Meta looked up when they mentioned Sigma, before looking around at the others as if to ask for confirmation. Gamma nodded slightly, and Meta let out a low noise like a wounded animal before moving to the corner of the van, rubbing his head.

"Shit, I gotta pick up Eddie," Church said.

"Then drive to a block away from your current location. You can pick up Epsilon and make your way to the safehouse on your own."

Delta sounded normal. But when Church looked back, his eyes were still blazing.

* * *

"Eddie! Eddie!"

_Please be at home, please be at home._

"Leo?" Eddie stuck his head out of the bathroom. "What's going on?"

"Oh, thank god. We have to go. Pack up anything essential. We're leaving right now."

"What, really? Why?"

"Because shit just fucking happened, I don't have time to explain!" Eddie was staring at him with wide eyes. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"The last time you were so quick to get us moving... that was when Dad died. Something really bad must have happened."

Church briefly covered his face. "Yeah. Yeah, it..."

"Are the others okay? Leo? What happened?"

"I... I'll explain on the way. I just... We need to leave. Okay?"

"Okay." Eddie hurried off to his room to grab his stuff. Church looked around the kitchen, and spotted a piece of paper stuck to the fridge. It was Tex's phone number. He pulled it off the fridge, looked at it for a moment.

It would make sense to throw it away and change numbers. Get rid of anything that could be linked to him. Church kept staring at the number, turning the piece of paper over in his hands.

After a few moments of consideration, he slipped it into his pocket. He would later say it made sense at the time.

* * *

When Wash came to, he couldn't move. His wrists were bound with rope, and the same was true for his ankles. That was bad enough, but there was also something metal around his neck, and it was chaining him to the pipe his back was resting against. At least, it felt like a pipe. Wash couldn't see it.

He couldn't see anything. The room was pitch black. He couldn't see his hands if he raised them to his face.

His back hurt. Especially where South—_oh, that fucking bitch, how could she do that_—had shot him. Although it didn't feel damp, so he probably wasn't bleeding anymore. Wash blinked a few times, hoping the darkness was just his eyes getting used to his surroundings. It wasn't.

"Hello?" he called out nervously.

He got a chuckle in return.

"Well. It seems you're awake. Wonderful. I was getting tired of waiting."

"Where am I? What's this metal thing around my neck? What... what happened?" Wash tried to remember, but all he remembered was the huge, growling man... "What happened to Carolina and South and the others?"

"I don't know of any South. Carolina, however? Dead. Or bullet-ridden, at least." There was another laugh. "No-one knows you're here. And we're keeping you here until you talk. The longer you stay quiet... the longer you suffer for."

Wash still couldn't see... But he knew whoever was talking to him was smiling.

"Personally, I hope you don't talk for a long time."

* * *

"I don't get it. We know his name. We know which club he frequents. All we have to do is go there, ask around, find him and cut his fucking kidneys out," Grif said, stretching his arms over his head as he lazed around on Simmons' bed. "That doesn't sound like it needs much preparation."

"Sure, if you want to get caught," Simmons muttered. "I, on the other hand, am not partial to the idea of getting sent to prison."

"True. You're too pretty for prison. You'd never get any sleep."

"Shut up. Anyway..." Simmons was tapping away on his keyboard. "It'd be way too suspicious if we just walked down there, started asking 'hey, you know that guy who beat up Sister? Have you seen him around? No, I just want to talk, the giant knife I'm holding has nothing to do with this.' We don't even know what he looks like. I don't want to ask Sister in case she gets suspicious that we're not calling the police."

"Sister? Suspicious? She's as dumb as a rock."

"Be that as it may, I'd rather be prepared."

"And how are you gonna do that, anyway? Like you said, we don't even know what he looks like."

"You know, I'd love to say it was a hard, complicated process that only the most intelligent of people would be able to manage. But that's not true. I'm just looking him up on Facebook using Sister's friend list." Simmons shrugged. "This way we'll know what he looks like. Cross-reference a picture with whoever is at the club and it'll stop us from accidentally killing a bystander with the same name."

"Yeah, that would suck."

After a minute, Simmons said, "Okay. A bit hard to tell some details because he's wearing ridiculous sunglasses and waving around some kind of bright purple drink. But it should be enough."

"Okay. So now can we go and kill him?"

"No, dumbass. First off, we have to find out where he lives. Secon, we have to find the stuff we need to do the job. And third, we have to find somewhere near wherever he lives where we can either bury him or dispose of the body. I don't want to be driving several miles with a body in the truck. It would be the worst time for a cop to pull us over."

Grif groaned. "God, this sounds like a lot of work."

"Does that mean you want to give up?"

"Fuck no. But I can still complain about it."

"Alright." Simmons scrolled down the page. "Well, nothing tipping me off about his address. Guess he's not that stupid. I guess I got the choice of either going through the phonebook... but I checked, there's like twenty people who share his first initial and last name... very common name... and he might only use mobiles for all we know. But he and some friends were talking about going to a nightclub on Thursday. Might mean the same club that Sister always hung out at. And judging by her clubbing hours, he'd be there somewhere between 11pm and 6am. I'll just go down, keep a watch out. If this doesn't work, I'll have to check everyone in the phone book."

"What do you mean, you? You mean 'we.'"

"No way. The actual murder, sure. But I'm getting the feeling that if you see him before we're ready, you're just gonna immediately try to strangle him. Not risking it. I'm just gonna follow him and write down his address."

"I have more self-control than that, jeez," Grif grumbled.

"...You chased me up a tree."

"Only once!"

* * *

When it got to Thursday, Grif did not feel good about the whole thing.

He was still up for murdering the bastard. He just didn't like the idea of Simmons having anything to do with it, especially doing any of it alone. What if something happened? What if Simmons was caught and charged with stalking? What if the bastard somehow figured out what he was up to? What if Simmons got drunk at the nightclub and started groping people?

It didn't sit well with him. Not at all.

"If you get caught, I'm gonna kill you," Grif muttered. "Doubly so if you get drunk."

"Like I'm going to. Give me a little credit, jeez," Simmons complained, rolling his eyes.

"Seriously. I don't want you getting into trouble because I couldn't... you know."

"Because you have no self control?"

"Shut up. Get back quick."

"I'll try, but I can't promise anything. It could take forever for him to get back to his place. You can panic if I'm not back... uh... at nine."

"In the morning?!"

"No, I meant for you to panic about five minutes from now. Of course in the morning! It's a freaking nightclub. For nighttime activities. Which take place at night."

"I get it, jeez."

"You'll probably sleep through most of the time I'm gone, anyway."

* * *

Grif couldn't sleep. He tried, but every time he drifted off he would wake up less than half an hour later. The tiniest noises woke him up, and it took ages to get back to sleep again. He was too on edge. So, instead, he ended up wandering around the house, looking for something to distract himself with.

There was nothing. No-one to talk to, since Sister was still in the hospital and he couldn't call her because it was three in the morning. Nothing good on television, although Grif did spend a good hour watching some crappy movie about aliens and vampires. Nothing.

Grif passed by Simmons' room, then backed up and stuck his head in. Maybe Simmons had something in his room Grif could muck around with. Maybe he had porn on the computer or something. Porn was something that could distract him for a least a few minutes.

Grif flopped in front of the computer and tried opening it. But he was foiled very quickly, seeing as he had no idea what Simmons' password was. He did attempt a few guesses, mostly sci-fi shows and, after getting annoyed at the lack of success, several insults along the lines of 'nerd' and 'stickupass.'

Maybe Simmons kept the porn stored on a disc or stick. He had to have porn somewhere, why else would he always switch the computer off when Grif walked in?

After some rummaging, Grif did locate a drawer of discs. He picked up one. All it had written on it was '2.0.' Probably not porn. He checked the others. They all had 2.0 written on them. What the hell did that even mean?

Now that Grif was curious as to what 2.0 meant, and why Simmons had so many discs labeled with it, he found one that had some additional numbers scribbled on it. And plodded back into the other room to locate his own, much cheaper computer. Which was mostly used by Sister, and by him for the aforementioned porn.

Grif stuck the disc in. One file. Just a string of numbers. Grif went clicking on it anyway.

* * *

Simmons dragged his feet through the door at about six in the morning, feeling like he was about to pass out on the couch. However, Grif was sitting on said couch, arms crossed. He gestured to a disc sitting next to him on the arm rest.

"Simmons, what the hell?" he asked.

"Huh?" Simmons stared blearily at the disk for a moment, before realising it was one of the ones from his drawer.

_Oh shit._

He quickly grabbed it, tried to hide it. "The fuck were you doing going through my room?"

"I was looking for porn."

"I told you I don't watch that crap."

"Bullshit. Everyone watches porn. But that's not the point here." Grif waved his hand at the disc. "What the hell is up with that? I stuck it in me and Sister's computer—"

Simmons groaned. "You didn't."

"Okay, so it wasn't the brightest move to go clicking on it."

"Damn right it wasn't."

"And now everything I had on that computer is gone. Like, poof. Why do you even have something like that?"

"Maybe it's something to discourage people from snooping around in my fucking stuff!" Simmons stormed off towards his room, but he could hear Grif plodding behind him.

"Oh, like you'd put something like that out on the off-chance that I came across it." Grif reached out, grabbed the back of Simmons' shirt.

"Let go of me."

"Come on, just tell me what this is."

Simmons frowned, looking down at the disc. He'd never told anyone about his... slightly illegal activities. But it was Grif. Who was probably too lazy to ever blackmail him with the truth.

Besides. They were plotting murder together. What's hacking compared to that?

"Fine. This particular disc is pretty simple. Just supposed to wipe whatever computer it's run on. You already saw that. The rest of the stuff in that drawer... well, more computer stuff. Some of it has viruses, programs that can access highly secure databases, other parts of it just have information from hacked sources. Things like that. I send them to whoever wants them. For a price, obviously. Some of this stuff I keep mostly so if I ever get ratted out to the police, I can show them the stuff that whoever ratted me out wanted. Bring them down with me. I mean, I've only been tracked down once, but still..." Simmons nodded towards his room. "I have copies on the computer, these are just back-ups."

"You're a computer hacker? Really?"

"Well, yeah. I guess. This is the stuff I've been doing every single time you barged in and assumed I was looking up porn." Simmons chanced a glance at Grif. Grif looked a mix between confused and horrified. "What? Oh, so plotting murder is okay but doing illegal computer stuff isn't?"

"You mean you really weren't looking up porn? Not once?"

"No!"

"I don't believe you."

"Back to the subject at hand, Grif!"

"This is the subject at hand! I can't believe you've never looked up porn."

"...So, the whole 'really a computer hacker' thing isn't important?"

"No, not really... I mean, a little surprising, yeah. Given that you get angry at me if I go past the speed limit or J-walk. But otherwise... eh." Grif shrugged. "But, come on. No porn?"

"Seriously. Stop asking." Simmons did feel a wave of relief that Grif hadn't tried to call the cops on him or anything. He'd been constantly terrified that Grif would do that one day. At least until the murder plotting. But he was still relieved. And thankful that Grif was enough of a dumbass to be more concerned about his lack of a porn stash.

"Come on, you're missing out. I can find some good stuff, I bet. ...Wait. Computer's wiped. Fuck. Sister is gonna kill me..." Grif paused. "Wait... Sister. That's right, you were out looking for that bastard. You find him?"

"Yeah, found him. Wearing the same dumb sunglasses as in his photo and everything. Took a long while for him to leave the club, and at first he wandered off to some girl's house. Eventually followed him to another apartment building. Wrote it down. Once I get some sleep, I'll look up some good places to bury him."

"Awesome."

* * *

"How can babies eat this crap?" Tucker muttered, staring into the half-eaten tin of baby food. Why did babies have to eat such messy food? Couldn't it at least have a nice flavour? Like pudding? Instead of... what was this? Tucker checked the label. Turnips. Gross.

Junior sat in the baby chair, covered in turnip-flavored gloop. Tucker sighed, sticking the spoon back into the jar. Why did babies have to be so messy and stinky? Bleh. Well, judging by how much gloop Junior was covered in, he was probably sick of the food by now.

"You sick of this yet, Junior?"

"Honk honk."

"I don't know what that means. Yes or no? Can you say either? Yeeeeeeees?"

"Honk?"

"Great. I don't even know if that's regular baby babble or an actual word." Tucker started wiping the baby food off Junior. "Okay, what about Daddy? Can you say Daddy? Dah-dee."

"Honk-honk?"

"Da. Dee."

"Honk. Honk."

"Huh. Well, I'm not teaching you to call me Mummy. That'd be weird." Tucker finished wiping Junior off, pulled him out of the chair. Junior blarged before waving his arms at the chair. "No, you can't stay in the chair. I gotta go to C.T. See if he's got any jobs avaliable. Spent all my money on your freaking baby food. I'm hungry." Tucker looked down at the turnip-flavoured baby food. "Does this actually taste any good?"

* * *

"You said you'd be here half an hour ago," C.T muttered. "And why do you always bring the kid here?"

"I can't leave him by himself. And I would have been here quicker, it's just that I decided to try the baby food, see if it was any good."

"And?"

"It tastes like feet."

"That's disgusting."

"I know, I was there. No wonder Junior throws it everywhere instead of eating it." Tucker seated Junior on the counter. "Anyhow, I need a job that pays well. Got any?"

"Get the kid off the counter. I just cleaned it, you'll smudge it up. And smudging up the counter is a privilege reserved for people actually buying drinks."

"I can't afford drinks! I'm going through a dry spell! Well, money-wise. Not with the ladies." Tucker grinned. "Chicks dig single fathers. Although if I let slip that the other parent was a guy, they immediately assume that I'm gay... kinda sucks. Anyway, come on. There's gotta be something that pays, you know, a decent amount."

"Well, if you don't mind leaving the city for a couple of days, I need some work done. There's this party, basically a networking kind of thing." C.T shrugged. "Only for important people, mostly business tycoons, city officials and such. It's mostly information I'm looking for, so I can swindle and blackmail them later on. This party will have hundreds of people talking about both their professional and personal lives. It's a goldmine. So, I want as many people there as possible." C.T frowned at him for a moment. "Hm. Get up, stand a couple of steps back. Let me look at you."

"Only if you hold Junior. I don't want him falling off the counter."

"Alright." C.T picked up Junior, who immediately blarged and started squirming. Bouncing him up and down, C.T nodded at Tucker. "Go on. Turn around." After a few seconds of Tucker rotating, C.T sighed. "Damn. Dressing you up like a girl is going to be more difficult. Gonna have to cover the obviously male shoulders. Even with the overly round face for a male in his mid-twenties... Thank god you've got a high-pitched voice, or this would be impossible."

"Cross-dressing? Again?!"

"Relax, you won't have to give any old businessmen hand jobs this time. It's just that Jones—"

"Joannes!" Joannes yelled from the other end of the bar. "Why can't people ever get my name right?"

"Thing is, he could only secure one invitation. But guests are allowed. And if someone has a couple of ladies clinging to his arms it makes him look important. Unfortunately, seeing as the majority of people there will be male, whoever dresses up like a woman to get in has to be convincing, so they won't go 'wait a second, that woman looks awfully mannish.' So, I can't just ask any of the guys to do this. Gets harder as you get older. You definitely won't be able to pull it off as well as you could eight years ago. But you still got the girly ass. Gonna need some convincing fake boobs, though."

"How much is this gonna pay?"

"Depends. Our prime goal is flim-flamming various tycoons, but the main thing you're not even a big part of. Jones—I mean, Joannes—is going to be posing as someone who owns a large catering company, amongst many other things. We convince them that the delicious foods he's selling are not fictional, they'll later pay us for said delicious foods, and then we scram. You'll be helping do that, as well as keeping a general ear out. Taking note of anything that could be used against them. Whether it's their business, hobbies, implications that they're cheating on spouses and don't want said spouses to know about it... Whatever you can get out of them. But failing that, just convince them to consider contacting Joannes and his fictional catering company.

"Then, once we pull off a con where any of the information or connections you found came in useful, you'll be paid a cut. Regardless of whether you're involved in the con itself or not." C.T smiled wryly, still bouncing Junior up and down. "Do well, and you'll be getting enough to keep you and this diaper-filler comfortable for months, if not the entire year."

"Don't call Junior a diaper-filler."

"What? It's the truth."

"Anyway, I guess I'm in. As long as it pays well."

"No problem. This is a classy gathering."

* * *

A week later, Tucker knocked on the door of the hotel room he was meant to meet C.T and Joannes at. Rather more fancy than what he was used to, because C.T said it would be irritating if they managed to pull off the whole 'classy tycoon and his lady companions' act and then got found out because they were staying at a cheap motel with cockroaches sleeping in the corner.

"You're late! Again!" C.T shouted from the other side of the door. "God, you're unreliable..."

"Shut up. Just let me in."

"Just a second... Anyone out there with you?"

"No."

The door swung open. Tucker looked C.T up and down before bursting out laughing.

"Oh man, you didn't say you were going along with this, too."

C.T scowled, crossing his arms over the dress he was wearing. It was mildly disturbing to Tucker, who'd only ever seen C.T in... well, male clothes. Generally suits and his bartending clothes. Now he was dressed in very fashionable, expensive-looking female clothes. High heels, black dress, some nice jewelry. He'd also fiddled with his short haircut to make it look a little more feminine and put some make-up on.

Tucker had never been aware of how girly C.T looked. And yet C.T had always made fun of him for looking girly. Fucking hypocrite.

"Shut up. I couldn't find anyone else to go along with this, alright? Besides, I want this job done perfectly. No better way to make sure than going myself. ...Stop laughing! You're going to be dressed just the same in a couple of minutes!"

That immediately stopped Tucker laughing. "Oh, shit, that's right."

"Yeah. So shut up or I'm giving you frosted pink lipstick."

"I'll be good. Seriously, though. Dynamite boobs."

"Shut up and get dressed."

As he turned around, walked back into the room, Tucker noticed he was wobbling considerably in the high heels. That broke the illusion somewhat.

"Uh. Maybe you should wear flat shoes."

"Give me an hour to get used to them and it'll be fine. As long as I don't have to run anywhere. Anyway, Joannes should be back in about ten minutes, he just went to pick up the car. He'll probably spend the whole evening laughing at both of us because he gets to stay manly. I've got three guest lists, on each one I've highlighted particular guests that I want each of us to concentrate on. Hearing other bits of information is good, too, but I want you to focus on particular ones. Some of them are more susceptible to... silver-tongued women. I'm not really that good with the feminine charm."

"Oh, and I am? Stop insulting my manliness!"

* * *

Joannes did laugh at them. To the extent that C.T threatened to tie him up and leave him in the hotel room, until he pointed out that he was the one with the party invitation. He still quieted down, at least until they reached the party. But then he started giggling again as he parked the car.

"Jones—" Tucker started.

"Joannes."

"If you keep giggling like a dumbass, then I am gonna strangle you with this... scarfy cloaky thing."

"Shawl," C.T corrected him.

"Whatever it is, I'm gonna strangle him with it."

"And I'm gonna strangle you if you keep using that voice. Put on a girlier one."

"But then I sound like a guy imitating a girl."

"If you don't, you just sound like a guy. And stop waving the shawl around, I gave it to you to cover up the man-shoulders. Not to strangle idiot con-artists with."

"Can we just get this over with?"

"Of course we can, ma'am," Joannes said brightly.

"Put down the shawl, Tucker."

"Gonna strangle him."

"Maybe later. For now, just keep the hatred inside. And smile, look like you're used to wearing pretty dresses and clinging to the arms of idiots."

Tucker hated conning at times like this. Sure, it wasn't as bad as giving an old guy a handjob, but clinging to Joannes' arm and trying to look like typical arm candy was... well, to say it was a little embarrassing was like saying that Crunchbite's grasp on English was slightly off. The main thing that made him feel better was that C.T looked even more uncomfortable. Maybe that was just the high heels.

Joannes was grinning, though. Jerk.

There was no difficulty getting in. The host greeted Joannes rather cheerfully and made some flattering comments before greeting the next group of people. Once they were far enough from the host so he couldn't hear them, C.T muttered, with the fake smile still on his face, "You can let go now."

"Do I have to? This is fun. And you both look so pretty," Joannes said, once again trying not to laugh.

"Let go or I will castrate you and you'll be even more of a woman than us," C.T said as quietly as possible. Fake smile was still there, but in that context it came off more as the kind of smile an ax murderer would wear.

"Okay, okay." Joannes let go of the two of them. "When do we meet back here?"

"I'd say three hours is reasonable."

* * *

On one hand, the stuff Tucker had to listen to was incredibly dull. Especially that guy who talked about golf for a full half an hour. Which would have been irritating in any situation, but was particularly bad because Tucker had to listen to every detail, in case he let slip any important information. ...He didn't.

Still, at least Tucker managed to get him to consider investing in Joannes' imaginary catering company. Ah, the magic of staying quiet and having boobs. He managed to convince some others to do the same, but he couldn't really get any information that could be used as potential blackmail off them. Not even hints towards it, unless that first guy was related to a severely anti-golf family.

Nothing particularly noteworthy. Until, about twenty minutes before he was set to meet the others, he found one of the city officials on his list. Some guy in his mid-forties. Who Tucker assumed must have been into the black girls, seeing as he spent a lot of time trying to discreetly stare at his butt instead of ogling the much more attractive women in the room. (Seriously, there were some bombshells in there. Took all of Tucker's self-control to remember he was currently dressed as a woman and that hitting on them was not smart at the present time.) Spent a lot of time talking about all the good work he'd done in the city. Very reputable stuff.

Tucker was just a little disturbed by the totally-not-accidental hand-brushing and the many flattering comments. Not as disturbing as the first time, but still kind of creepy. But it couldn't hurt his ability to dig for possible cons and blackmail material, so he ended up playing along. At least this time he knew how to flirt back. Even if it was a man instead of a woman. Although apart from the occasional piece of flatter ('oh, so you donated money to that charity? How nice, you must be a kind and generous man, yadda yadda...') Tucker stayed quiet because he was still terrified his unconvincing girly voice would give him away.

Apparently it worked for him. Because Tucker ended up walking off with the man's phone number and a time and place to meet. As he wandered off to meet C.T and Joannes, Tucker pondered whether he could pass the con off onto C.T. Most likely not. The man would probably notice if the woman he'd been ogling suddenly changed colour.

Goddammit. Tucker didn't want to go through the same incident as eight years ago. Stupid crossdressing. But if the man was either straight, had a spouse or both, then there was good money to be made. And this time, he really needed the money. How else was he supposed to take care of Junior?

_This is the sort of thing your mother would have been proud of._

Tucker tried to ignore that thought.

Once he found the others and they decided to leave, they held off conversation until they were back in the car.

"Got anything good?" C.T asked.

"Oh yeah, made a bunch of contacts. Heard a couple of things that might be good leads on blackmail. Also got invited out to golf by one of them," Joannes said.

"Ugh, golf guy," Tucker muttered. "I think my ears shriveled up from listening to him."

C.T turned towards Tucker. "What about you? Anything good? Any contacts or information?"

Tucker hesitated for a brief moment. He knew if he told C.T about the city official he was planning on conning, that he would insist on a good portion of whatever he conned the man out of. It was always like that. C.T always got a cut.

So, for the first time ever, Tucker lied to another con-artist.

"Nothing but a bunch of contacts that I talked into investing into Joannes' imaginary company. I didn't even get invited golfing," Tucker complained.

C.T seemed to accept this. "Oh well. The contacts are enough. Should be enough to start some good tricks. Now get back to the hotel. If I have to stay in these high heels any longer I'm going to beat someone to death with them."

"Aw, but they look good."

"Note that by someone, Jones, I meant you."

"Shutting up now."

* * *

Less than a week after Sister was hospitalized, Grif and Simmons were digging a hole. Or to be more correct, Simmons was digging while Grif was slacking off.

"You were so annoyed at me following the guy by myself. Now that we're at the point where you can finally do something, you just stand there?" Simmons complained.

"I'm digging."

"No, you're making digging noises. Hurry up and help me. Do you know how awkward it'll be if someone finds us here?"

"Point taken." Grif dug his shovel into the ground. It was quiet for a while, except for the sound of dirt being pushed around. "Not gonna be too deep, is it?"

"No. It'd take too long to bury him once we kill him. It's gonna be shallow. Better the risk of him being found by a dog digging around or something, than to risk the police or anyone else finding us in the act of burying him."

"Cool. Less digging." Grif scowled at the shallow pit. "Jerk doesn't deserve a grave."

"Yeah, I know. But... well. No rivers to throw him into. Not nearby, anyway." Simmons glanced around. "I don't even like burying him here. It's too..."

"Close to the road?" Grif looked up as well. He could see car lights through the trees. It was a tiny park near the edge of the city. Just enough trees to keep them shielded. Unless someone came deep enough into the trees to look for them. "What'll we do if someone... someone does find us while we're doing our shit?"

Simmons frowned, pausing for a few moments before digging the shovel back into the ground. "I really don't know. The logical move would be hitting them over the head with a shovel and throwing them into the hole, too."

"Dude!"

"Yeah, exactly. That's... that's way too cold. I mean, what if it was just a random hobo? What if it was just someone on their way home from work? What if it was a kid that got lost or something? Seriously, I have no idea what we'll do."

"Damn. I got no idea either. I'm cool with killing the douchebag, but anyone else... well... ehhh. Not so cool." Grif stopped, leaning on the shovel. "Man, this is hard work."

"You've done barely anything!"

"Alright, quit bitching. So... we do the actual, uh, killing here? Or back at his place?"

"Well... I'd rather do it here. As long as we gag him first. If there's bloodstains in the apartment, or if one of his friends comes over—if they're anything like Sister, they're practically nocturnal, so it's a strong possibility—well, that could be mad awkward. The bloodstains would tip them off, they'd start searching so much sooner. Plus, if we're just dragging, like, a knocked out guy here as opposed to a dead body... well, if we get caught in that stage there will be less of a prison sentence. Kidnapping versus murder and all."

"I'm glad you're the one thinking all this through. I would have just jumped through his window and punched the guy until he was just a smear on the carpet," Grif said, still leaning on the shovel.

"I know. Because you're an idiot."

"Shut up." Grif pondered for a moment, then said, "What if the gag falls out and he starts screaming while we're here?"

"Well..." Simmons shrugged. "When was the last time you heard screaming and thought 'hey, I'll go in that direction and see what's up?' As long as we muffle him up again pretty quickly, should be fine. If people are smart, they'll keep walking."

"I guess. I hear yelling, I usually just go 'goddamn kids making a racket.' Usually is just some dumbass returning home from a party." Grif frowned. "I'm getting nervous."

"Same." Simmons shook his head. "Too much could go wrong, you know?"

"Yeah. But hey, we're this far already. Just as long as both of us don't wuss out when we're cutting him open."

Once they were finished, they quickly covered up the hole with some branches, so that it would disguise the hole at a glance.

"Now what?"

Simmons checked his watch. "He's probably at the clubs right now. Judging by how late he got back last time, he'll get back at about three. Then we knock him out, throw him in the trunk, drive him here, cut him a new one and then toss him in the hole. Cover him in dirt and then go back to the apartment and never mention this again. Let's get going."

* * *

"Whoa, shit."

The man that Sister had dubbed as Random Guy #3 attempted to make his way through the door of his apartment. However, copious amounts of alcohol and weed, as well as those weird-ass rainbow pills, tended to make that difficult. He bounced off the doorframe at least twice before finally making his way in. Took him a couple of attempts to shut the door behind him.

There was an odd feeling that something had been wrong with going through the door, but maybe that was just the weed-induced paranoia. Nah, he was sure something had been wrong.

He stumbled back, opened the door. Nothing there. He closed it again and made his shaky way towards the bathroom. It was only once he was out of there and halfway to the bedroom did he realise what was up.

The door had been unlocked. He was pretty sure he'd locked it on the way out, because the last time he didn't one of his friends came in and used up a bunch of his weed. How could he forget to—

His slow-moving thoughts about doors, weed and stoned friends was halted by someone hitting him over the head with a shovel.

* * *

"Easy, Grif. Save it for when we get him to the hole," Simmons muttered, holding Grif's arm and stopping him from hitting the man over the head again. Grif did lower the shovel reluctantly, before poking the unconscious man with his foot.

"Thank god he showed up. That closet smells like all of the stuff Sister has ever taken. At once." Grif looked back at the closet he'd been hiding in. "Kinda making me woozy. We just tie the douchebag up, yeah?"

"Yeah."

After quickly binding his arms and legs and taping his mouth shut, Simmons attempted to pick him up. He didn't actually have the muscle to pick up another human being so easily, however, and Grif had to drop the shovel so he could stop Simmons from falling over without hitting him in the face with it.

"I got this, alright? You can drive."

"I was gonna drive anyway. The police will pull us over if you drive, you maniac."

"Alright, alright." Grif rummaged through his pockets, finding his keys buried at the bottom of them, underneath all the random bits of paper, his wallet and something that might have previously been a piece of licorice. "How'd they even get to the bottom, I put them there like half an hour ago. Pass the jerk here."

Grif nearly toppled over, too, but he managed to get a good hold on the man, so that it almost looked like he was giving the man a very strange piggy back ride. It would look like that from a distance, anyway. Simmons tugged the keys out of his hand before they quickly made their way out, taking the thankfully empty stairs to the car they'd parked just outside the back door of the building.

* * *

It was only after they got him to the park and started clearing branches off the grave. Only then did the man start stirring. Grif, as per usual, was trying to avoid the grunt work. So he was standing closer, heard the faint groans.

"Simmons? I think he's awake."

Simmons just shrugged. "Hit him with the shovel again, I don't know."

Grif considered it. But he looked down at the man and visualized Sister sitting in the hospital. He immediately decided that knocking him out with a shovel was too nice.

"Mmfmfffmff?" the man grumbled through the tape. Grif glared down for a moment.

"We have a knife around, don't we?"

"I'll get it."

Simmons walked off towards the car. Returned with a knife. Just a regular steak knife. He handed it over to Grif before standing to one side, head tilted. Grif pointed the knife at the man's face, barely an inch away from his nose.

"Okay, douchebag. On the very, very offchance you survive this... then maybe this'll teach you not to go beating up girls. Especially girls that are my sister."

"Mmf?"

He beat up Sister with his hands. Be fair if I chopped those off. Stop him from hurting other girls.

"Can a knife chop through someone's wrists?" Grif asked.

"If it can, it'll take too long." Simmons was fidgeting quite a bit. He kept glancing back at the trees, watching the road for anyone who would find them. "Just... cut off something smaller. Like his eyes or something."

The man started thrashing around at this point. Simmons' immediate reaction to this was to grab the shovel and smack him over the head with it again.

"Simmons!"

"What?"

"If he's unconscious, it'll be over too fast!"

"It's supposed to be over fast! We'll get caught if we take too long!" Simmons snarled. "If you're gonna chop something off, hurry up!"

"Okay, okay."

The man wasn't thrashing, but he was still awake. Groaning a lot. But Grif didn't give a shit. Because Sister had probably been making pained sounds when she was being attacked, and that hadn't made him stop, fucking bastard.

"Well, if you're anything like... every other guy that Sister hangs around with... then you probably fucked." Grif considered this for a brief moment. "So, guess this means I gotta cut off your junk."

"Gross," Simmons muttered.

"I know. Plus, this means I gotta pull off his pants and grab a hold. That's kinda gay."

"...You are gay."

"Yeah, but... you know. Still gross."

"God, you're a wuss."

"I'm the wuss? You're the neurotic one, you should be the one freaking out."

"This is so not the time for arguing about this!" Simmons yelled.

"Ah, right."

The man had started thrashing again. That made things a bit more difficult. But it wasn't too hard... Just had to yank down his pants and start stabbing. Grif barely heard the muffled screaming. It was drowned out by his own thoughts, and the rush of adrenaline that was accompanying each stab.

_That's for giving her all those goddamn drugs, this is for fucking her, this is for dumping her in the hospital you fucking jerkoff, this is for—_

"You just had to cut off his junk, didn't you? Made such a mess."

"Hey, shut up!" Grif looked around. He was covered in blood. Didn't realise cutting off his junk would make him bleed so much. "Gah, there's blood everywhere. Ew, ew, ew." Grif wiped his hands off on the man's pants, before throwing what he'd chopped off into the pit. "Gross. I'm gonna need so many showers when I get back. He dead?"

Simmons hadn't done anything, just stood to the side the entire time, holding the shovel. Looking sort of interested, sort of disgusted and very nervous about being caught.

"He's not moving."

"Good enough. As long as those last seconds were completely shit for him."

"How could they not be?"

Together, Grif and Simmons rolled him into the hole, grabbed the shovels and started pushing the dirt back into it. Occasionally a car would drive past on the nearby road, and they would both freeze. The adrenaline was still going strong, at least for Grif, but the nervousness about being caught was catching up.

"Regretting anything?" Simmons asked, in the midst of shoveling.

"Well, I wish I'd chosen a better way to kill him. Didn't realise chopping off his junk would be so bloody."

"Dumbass."

"Shut up." Grif dumped another shovelful of dirt in the hole before pausing. "Simmons? ...The dirt's moving."

The dirt was moving, shifting quite a bit. And they could both hear muffled sounds coming from inside. Groaning. Simmons stared down at it, eyes wide, before hissing, "Keep going!"

"But I don't think he's dead..."

"Well, he'll be dead quicker if we fill in the hole!"

They shoved the rest of the dirt in at a lightning fast pace. The dirt was still moving slightly, but the noises were completely drowned out.

"We should probably go," Simmons whispered after a couple of seconds of staring. But neither of them moved. Just stared down at the dirt. Stared until it stopped moving altogether. Once it did, Grif let out a very long breath of air.

"It's done."

"Yeah."

They quickly and silently exchanged a fist bump before kicking any remaining dirt over the blood soaking the ground and hurrying back to the car. They didn't exchange another word the entire way back.

* * *

As per agreement, they didn't speak a word about it the next day.

"I'm gonna go visit Sister at the hospital," Grif yelled out, rummaging around his room.

"Okay!" Simmons shouted back.

Grif kept rummaging around, before scowling. He'd misplaced his wallet. Wouldn't have been the first time, it was probably buried somewhere under the couch with his oreos.

No matter, he could go without it for a day. He'd just have to go and hope that no-one pulled him over and asked to see his driver's licence.

* * *

"Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeilaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" Caboose yelled out, cupping his hands over his mouth to try and make the sound louder.

"Sir, this is a hospital! Stop yelling!" one of the nurses snapped.

"Miss Nurse Lady, have you seen Sheila?!"

"Sheila who?"

"Uhhhh... she is a doctor lady."

"What kind of doctor? ...Sir, do you have any sort of medical issue?"

"No. I am looking for Sheila."

Caboose got kicked out fairly quickly. It was the fifth hospital he'd been kicked out of.

He had hitchhiked like he'd seen in the movies to get to the first hospital. The man that picked him up was kind of weird. Had a very long beard. Car smelt like the time that Caboose had set his hair on fire. The other times he'd managed to hitchhike, the people had been normal. Although most of them had stared at him in a creeped out way. People would not let him in the car once he started smelling like a trash heap, though.

He had not found Sheila. He had found another lady called Sheila at one hospital, but it was not the nice Sheila. It was an angry old lady who accused him of being a creepy hobo stalker. Caboose had run away very quickly.

In the process of searching several hospitals, all Caboose had achieved was getting even more hopelessly lost than before.

And he was very hungry. So the first thing he did after getting thrown out of another hospital was to go looking around in dumpsters for food. Because that's what people did in the movies when they were hungry and had no money. Although half-eaten hotdogs and sandwiches did not taste very good.

Once he found enough trash food to make him less hungry, he went back to wandering around. He wasn't sure what he was looking for anymore. He could not find Sheila. He did not know the name of the hospital she worked at, and he wasn't even sure he was in the right city. He could not even try calling her, because he didn't know her number. Numbers were hard to read after the accident.

He wanted to go back home. But Mama had been so mad at him... and she had told him to stay out of the way. Caboose could not be more out of the way. So, he could not go back. And even if he could, he didn't know the way home, either.

He spent some time wandering around. Eventually, he ended up in an area with a lot of signs with lights on them. It was not a very bright street, though, even with the lights. It kind of reminded him of the places that his father liked to go to.

At this point, even seeing his dad would be happier than what he was doing.

Caboose was still hungry. Dumpster hotdogs just made him want to throw up. But he had no money, so he needed to earn money. ...How could he do that? Maybe if he started singing... he'd seen that on the TV, too. Although they always had hats for people to throw money in. He'd left the earflappy hat that Sheila gave him at home.

Still, it couldn't hurt to try. And Caboose was better at remembering songs than remembering regular conversation. So he started doing some weird spazzy dance and singing the first thing that came to mind. Which just happened to be a Disney song.

He got some very strange looks. Maybe they had never heard the Hakuna Matata song before. Whatever the reason, it did not take long before someone yelled behind him.

"Oi! You! Shut the fuck up!"

Caboose frowned, turned around to face the man standing behind him. He stared down, eyes narrowed. The man had interrupted his attempts to earn money for lunch. And that meant Caboose had to stay hungry for longer. It was not sitting well with him at the moment.

"That was... rude," Caboose mumbled. The man hesitated, but then kept shouting.

"Seriously, dude. You're scaring away the customers. I'll pay you ten bucks to piss off, alright?"

Caboose stared for a few more long moments. The other man shifted under his gaze. But then Caboose nodded.

"Okay. I am sorry."

"Creepy stare you got there." The man tilted his head left and right, looking at Caboose from different angles. "Actually, you're a real huge fucker, ain't you?"

Caboose didn't say anything.

"You smell like a dumpster, but with the intimidation factor... You ever consider working as a bouncer?"

"Bouncing? I did not know you could get paid to jump around."

"No, dumbass. I meant... you know. A bouncer. It's like being a bodyguard. But for a whole building." He jammed a thumb behind him at the building. There was a shiny, glowing sign out front that Caboose couldn't read. "You know. Stand there. Stop anyone who looks too shifty from walking in. Throw out anyone that causes trouble. Just scaring off the wrong sorts. Hell, you got the scaring people off part down, just have to do it more selectively. And without singing fucking Disney songs."

"And you will pay me the ten dollars?"

"Of course. ...You're not too bright, are you? Can you read?"

"No."

"Excellent. Stay still. Lemme just check with the boss. We've been having trouble finding someone else to guard the door, so he'll probably say yes."

Caboose spent the next few minutes standing there, staring up at the shiny sign. It was mostly letters. There was also a dancing lady on the sign. As he was gazing at it, the door of the building swung back open.

"—probably doesn't even know what mininum wage is—"

"Yeah, okay, I get it."

The man had come back with another man following him, one who was wearing a lot of denim.

"Wow. You really are a huge fucker."

_Why do they keep swearing? Mama would not like that. She would say 'do not work for these people, Mikey. They are a bad influence.' Just like when a friend from school came over, and she was all 'no, Mikey, you are picking up his bad language, do not hang around with him anymore.'_

"Okay. What's your name, kid?"

"Mi—" Caboose quickly stopped. Mikey was what nice people like Mama called him. This man did not sound very nice. And people at school, the meaner people (although they were his friends, because Caboose was not a nice person before and he liked to stick kids heads in toilets) did not call him Mikey, theyjust used his last name. "I mean... Caboose."

"Caboose? Seriously? Whatever. Okay, well... you seem solid enough. But you're not stepping into my club unless you get rid of the smell and that... ridiculous jumper."

Caboose frowned down at his jumper. Mama had made it for him. It had a kitten on the front. "Ridiculous?"

"Fucking ridiculous."

Caboose went quiet, went back to staring. The new man, the one who was the boss, did not flinch. Instead, he laughed.

"Can see what you meant. Freaky-ass stare. Should be enough to clear off any unwanted people, no problem. Doesn't even need the muscle."

"I cannot get rid of the jumper or the dumpster smell. I have no shower. Or clothes. I left that stuff somewhere. I live on a bench."

"You're homeless? Well, fuck. Deal with that first before you come back here." He walked back inside. The first man shrugged.

"Look, my cousin works here. She's very materal, likes helping people. She'll be off in an hour, I'll ask her if she can help you with it. Because, seriously, we need a new bouncer. I've been working double shifts just to cover everything, falling asleep on my feet. Just sit on that bench over there, I'll send her your way. She'll be happy about it, she likes helping the cute ones. And I guess any guy who wears a kitten jumper qualifies as some kind of cute."

Caboose fell asleep on the bench very quickly. He got poked awake by a pretty lady with blonde hair and not many clothes. Was it No Pants Time? Was that before or after Food Time? ...Maybe she was just making up times.

"You're Caboose, aren't you? I'll help you find a place to shower and some clothes, alright? Glad to help. Always fun. Can't help you get a place to live until you have the job, but I'm sure you can manage that. Come on."

"Okay."

Caboose trailed behind her. She was very good at running in high heels.

"Of course, darling!" she said when he said it outloud. "If I'm gonna dance on a stage in high heels, I at least need to be able to run in them."

"I thought dancers wore ballet shoes."

"Ballet dancers, sure. The exotic variety? Not so much."

Wait a second. Exotic dancers? That is what Dad called the ladies in the strip clubs.

Crap.

* * *

And so Caboose ended up being hired to stand at the door and stop jerks from filling up the place. Caboose could deal with that. As long as he didn't have to look at the various half-naked ladies dancing around the room.

It just had to be a strip club, didn't it? One of the few sorts of buildings that Caboose hated. But he did not know how to get another job. So he stayed.

He still spent the first few days sleeping on a bench nearby. But then Nice Blonde Lady (who he could not remember the name of because the strippers did not tell anyone their real names, and her stage name was too complicated) helped him find a house. Well, it was not a house. More of a basement. As long as he paid the old lady who lived above him, then he could stay.

Caboose was okay with this, although he was still kind of scared of being stuck on his own. He still wanted to find Sheila. But he just didn't know how. At least he wasn't so hungry anymore. And he wasn't sleeping on benches, which was good.

The only thing that really, truly scared him? The closet that was inside his new home.

The first night that Caboose spent in his basement, he couldn't sleep. Because he could swear he heard noises coming from the closet. Angry, creaking noises.

Caboose was positive that there was a boogeyman in there. A mean, scary monster who was going to eat him when he went to sleep. He was big, sure. But monsters were much worse. Caboose stared at the closet, curled up in the fetal position on his tiny bed. The bed was clearly meant for a child. Caboose couldn't lie on it without his feet sticking out over the edge.

The boogeyman in the closet probably ate the kid who used the bed last. That was why the old lady upstairs was letting other people stay in there. To stop the boogeyman from going upstairs and eating her.

Caboose rocked back and forth. His eyelids kept drooping shut. But he'd force them open again.

When he thought he heard boogeymen at home, Mama would open the closet and chase them away. They did not attack Mama.

He'd almost fallen asleep, but he heard another long creaky noise.

_I am going to die! I am scared!_

Caboose climbed out of the bed, quickly ran out of the basement, went around and tapped on the old lady's front door.

"Missus Landlady!" he yelled. After a couple of minutes, the window slid open.

"Muh? ...What is it? Is there something wrong? Cockroaches?"

"There is a boogeyman in my closet!"

"...Are you two years old?"

"What?"

"Deal with it yourself! Don't bother me unless it's important!" the old woman snapped before closing the window again. Caboose stared upwards for a few minutes more, before slowly returning to the basement.

When he got back, the first thing he saw was a knife he used for making sandwiches. He picked it up, edged back towards the closet. After a few moments of standing there, back pressed against the wall and listening, Caboose pulled open the door and, with a frightened yelp, stabbed at whatever was inside the closet.

Which turned out to be nothing. Caboose frowned and checked behind his kitty jumper, which was hanging at the front, before closing the door carefully and going back to his bed.

Even as he tried to go back to sleep, he heard more creaking.

From that night on, Caboose always slept with the food knife under his pillow. And every night, he would open that door and wave the knife around inside, trying to get rid of the boogeyman.

And every night after that, he would curl up on his bed and wish that Sheila or Mama or someone... anyone.. was there, so he wouldn't have to be scared anymore.

* * *

"Don't look, don't look, don't look," Caboose muttered under his breath. Like he did every single day. It had been four months now since he took the job, and while he was used to the bright lights and music by now, he still did not like having to look at the dancers. The other bouncer rolled his eyes.

"They're getting paid to be ogled. Might as well."

"No."

"What are you, gay?"

"No. I am not happy at the moment. I am very uncomfortable."

"I meant—ah, nevermind." The other bouncer looked around, nodded his head at one of the tables. "Looks like that guy is getting overly rowdy. Hope we don't have to kick out the entire bachelor party."

Most of the men from the party looked happy. For some reason Caboose could not understand, they liked staring at half-naked ladies dancing around. Many of them were saying things in a language Caboose did not understand. Might have been called Spaniard.

One of the men did not look so happy. He looked rather bored. He was trying to pull his friend, the rowdy one, away from the table.

"_You look like an idiot,_" he said.

"_Loosen up, Lopez! Jeez! Your damn party, isn't it? Have some fun!_"

"_I would rather be under a car._"

"Alright, you," the other bouncer said. "You're yelling too loudly, and stop trying to grab the dancer's asses. No touching, got it?"

The bouncer got shouted at for his attempts to quiet the man down. Another one of the men joined in with the shouting, although the other ones were sober enough not to cause a scene. The two men who were too drunk to realise cursing out the bouncers was a bad idea got dragged out. Caboose had to drag one of them, and he was a very squirmy, angry man. But it was not as bad as that time the really angry biker man came in.

Soon, the group of Spaniard men left. The bored-looking one seemed happy when that happened.

* * *

Later that same day, Lopez's phone started beeping while he was watching a show about motorcycles. Lopez scowled, feeling around for his phone.

"_First that stupid party, now this..._" he muttered.

"_Lopez? What's wrong?_" Sheila was sitting next to him, reading a medical journal on some brain disease that Lopez had never heard of.

"_Nothing. Just... erk._" Lopez had flicked open his phone, and was presented with a picture of one of the stripper's backsides, which took up most of the screen. In the corner, he could see one of his friends being dragged away by the bouncers. "_When did he find the time to take that?_"

"Lopez?"

"My friends are idiots."

Sheila raised an eyebrow, put down the medical journal and shifted over to Lopez's side of the sofa. She glanced at the photo. "_Fun time?_"

"_Don't look at that, Sheila. It's not for your eyes._"

"I'm not angry about it, don't worry. As long as you didn't go to a brothel."

"He tried to drag us there," Lopez muttered.

"_It was a bachelor party, I didn't..._" Sheila paused. She tilted her head. "_Can I see that picture again?_"

"_It's a woman's posterior, Sheila. It's not worth looking at._"

"N_o, it was something in the background. Please?_"

Lopez shrugged, handed the phone over. Sheila stared at the picture, eyes narrowed.

"_The bouncer in this picture. Did you hear him say anything?_"

"_No. He didn't say anything to me._"

"_Can't see much from this picture... Big kid? Blue eyes?_"

"_Big, yes. Didn't look close enough to check the eyes._"

Sheila stared for a couple more moments, then shook her head. "_Caboose, what are you doing there?_"

"_What?_"

"_Nothing, Lopez. ...Would you mind telling me which strip club this was?_"

* * *

Donut had spent the entire last week in a flurry of activity. Mostly baking. He'd cooked more delicious cakes and biscuits than he'd ever be able to eat. He'd kept trying to shove them at Maine so they didn't go to waste, but eventually Maine snarled viciously at him before locking himself in the bathroom.

When Donut wasn't at work, he was cooking. He tried not to stop for sleep. If he stopped, he had to think about Mama Julie. And that was just a thought he didn't want to turn to, at the moment.

So he just kept going. Baking, working, occasional sleeping, more baking... When he ran out of ingredients and done so much cooking that it'd become monotonous and started leaving room in his head to fill with thoughts about Mama Julie, then he switched to sewing. Sewing, knitting, whatever he could manage. He'd thrown a purple knitted jumper over Maine at one point. He'd had to duck a punch for that.

But just as quickly as the cooking, the sewing and knitting became dull. Even quicker, actually. Sewing was repetitive to begin with, same with knitting.

Before long, Donut was reduced to staring at the television. Trying to find anything to distract himself with. Maine had left the bathroom at this stage and started sitting on the couch, watching the television as well.

It was at some point during an ad for garden manure when Donut's thoughts, the ones he'd been trying to put off, started to catch up with him.

"I'm a horrible person," he muttered.

Maine made a small growl.

"I should be there. I should be helping Mama Julie. But... But I don't know how."

Another growl. Had Donut really been paying attention, he might have recognised it as a 'shut up, I'm trying to watch television' growl. But he mistook it as a 'please, do go on' growl.

"I'm... I'm not good at this. I don't know what to do. I... I don't want to think about it. I don't want to lose another mama..." Donut pulled his legs up onto the sofa, wrapped his arms around them. "But I can't... I can't go over there. I have things to do here. Very busy. I need to cook more. More sewing. More knitting. I can't cancel on work. Need to cook more."

Maine snarled more viciously this time. Code for 'seriously, shut the hell up.' Donut mistook it for a 'you're just making excuses' growl.

"I know I am... I can't help it! I don't... You want to help me get some more baking supplies?"

That snarl sounded a lot like 'bitch, please!'

"Okay, okay." Donut climbed to his feet, returned to the kitchen. The whole place was covered in flour.

Cleaning. He could distract himself with cleaning!

About halfway through using a mop to clean the ceiling (why was there flour on the ceiling?) Donut stopped, lowered the mop. Partly because he was dripping mop water on himself.

"What am I doing?"

_I'm the worst son ever... Why am I still cooking? It won't change anything. It won't magically go away if I cook a nice cake._

Donut stared at the fridge, where he'd stored a number of awesome cakes. After a few moments of thought, he grabbed one of the cakes and shoved it in a container. A few minutes later, and he was running out the door with nothing but his wallet and a cake. Hoping like hell that he wasn't too late.

"Going out of state, be back later!" Donut yelled as he left. He heard a faint growl in reply. Donut started running to the train station.


	93. Chapter 86: Gnaw

**Chapter Eighty-Six: Gnaw**

"Lodoc. Hehthin intergin heeh... hair pen... yurunny off?"

"...What?"

Donut may have had no idea what O'Malley was talking about, but he was more freaked out at the fact that O'Malley seemed to be trying to reach him. He was having difficulty, and was using the wall as support while still mumbling incoherently. Even so, he was walking a lot better than Donut could.

Donut tried concentrating as hard as he could on either being able to stand or being able to phase through the wall. Neither was successful. And O'Malley was edging closer.

"Whah you... you take so long?"

"I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Shood... shood... rahnow." O'Malley made a vaguely threatening motion with his hands. He looked to the right, very focused on something Donut couldn't see. "Yeh. Shood do that."

_Why, wall? Why can't you let me pass through you? Just this once?_

"I, uh... I'm warning you. Stay away from me," Donut said shakily. "Because I... can totally walk."

"Warning me? ...Fuyoo das... how do I... bassey."

* * *

"You're warning me, Doc? Warning me?" O'Malley grinned as he continued to move towards him. This shouldn't have been so difficult, but the room was swaying alarmingly. "For you, that's... how do I say it... ballsy?" He laughed quietly. "Not something I associate with you."

"Stay back. I'm serious," Doc said. He was sitting up, and holding his hands in what was probably meant to be some kind of defensive position.

"Oooh, you're serious. Well, that just makes me reconsider completely," O'Malley said sarcastically. "Doc... You left. You left, you didn't even forewarn me about it, you didn't come back when I told you to... You stayed away long enough for me to resort to drastic measures. I'm very upset at you. What do you have to say for yourself, Doc?"

Doc looked confused. "Wait a second. Did you say Doc? I think I heard it."

"Obviously I called you that. Admittedly, the nickname is incorrect in so many ways."

O'Malley finally reached the bunk. Doc had shifted. Instead of lying down, he was sitting with his back against the wall. He looked terrified. Just the way O'Malley liked him.

Gary was still there. O'Malley could feel his presence. But he'd gone quiet. All the voices had. They were whispers at most. Maybe it was because O'Malley was so focused on Doc.

"You deserve to be punished for what you did. Even though you came back before I was forced to come and find you. You deserve it, Doc. You're not allowed to leave. Ever."

With that, O'Malley jumped forward. Although he lost his balance at the same time, it didn't matter. He managed to propel himself onto the cot, swinging one leg over and straddling Doc. The immediate reaction to this was a short scream before O'Malley clasped a hand over his mouth. "Shush. No shouting. Or it'll just be worse for you."

And then Doc swung a fist at him. Doc tried to punch him. O'Malley uncovered his mouth, but only so he could grab both of Doc's wrists, pin them to the cot.

"Violence? Not like you."

* * *

Donut's scream hadn't just been out of fear. O'Malley was sitting on him where it hurt the most, where he was still covered in scars and bandages. The pressure suddenly put on the area caused searing pain to rush through him, and it didn't stop.

O'Malley covered his mouth before he could make much noise. "Shusshhhh," O'Malley slurred. "Nooo shuttin. Ill jess... wurssel you."

_What does that even mean?! I'll just wrestle you? That makes no sense!_

Donut swung his fists at O'Malley, but he didn't manage to do any damage before his wrists were pinned to the cot. And the searing pain made it so hard to concentrate. It was so bad that sweat had started pouring down his face.

"Violets?" O'Malley muttered. "Not lieee... like..."

With his mouth uncovered, Donut attempted to shout something along the lines of "Get off me you crazy bastard! And why are you talking about flowers?" Either that or a scream for help.

However, the main caused by O'Malley sitting on top of him was interfering with his ability to breathe, and by extension affecting his ability to scream. All that came out when he tried was an indignant squeak.

O'Malley grinned down at him. "Nooo. Bad. Bad Doc. Nooo shuttin."

_Can't... breathe..._

O'Malley still had a tight grip on his wrists, had them pressed into the cot. Donut tried protesting again, all that came out this time was a raspy noise.

"Deserr...ish," O'Malley muttered. "Deserrit for... leaves. Leaves all alohh... Muh plahthin. Muhn."

Whenever O'Malley shifted, Doc made a noise of pain. He could feel bandages underneath Doc's shirt. Who'd hurt him? It didn't make any sense, but O'Malley didn't care at the moment.

"You deserve it," O'Malley muttered. "Deserve it for leaving. Leaving me all alone. You're my plaything. Mine." To make his point, O'Malley rocked slightly, tearing a short squeak of pain out. "I own you."

"Get off..." Doc choked out.

"Not until you've been punished." O'Malley pressed himself against Doc, lips brushing his ear. "Not until I've had my fun."

He felt Doc squirm. Trying to pull his arms free so he could defend himself. He was being unusually... difficult. Perhaps his brief freedom had given him ideas. O'Malley would just have to knock those ideas out of him. Being violent was one thing. O'Malley actually found that rather arousing when Doc did it. But right after running off? Not a good pattern. Too disobedient.

But still, having Doc underneath him again... That felt good. Really good. O'Malley actually felt... happy. He did want to punish Doc... but for now, he just wanted to enjoy the euphoria. Just wanted to enjoy the fact that his plaything was back.

* * *

It had not taken Wash very long to locate the infirmary's phone. Within a couple of minutes after leaving, he was already walking back again. When he approached the infirmary, however, he heard noises. Nothing particularly coherent, mostly whines and drugged mumbles. But it didn't sound particularly pleasant.

Wash frowned for a moment, staring at the closed door, before putting the phone on the ground, out of the way. Then he slowly grasped the doorknob and opened it as quietly as possible. He was good at appearing in rooms without making a sound, as well as disappearing just as quickly. It was one of his talents. But he didn't enter the room. He just opened the door.

He saw Donut with his arms pinned. Saw O'Malley straddling him, grinning and mumbling incoherently about violets. O'Malley was too focused on his victim to notice Wash opening the door. And Donut was too focused on trying not to die.

Wash knew he was meant to walk in and stop it. But... if Donut had the ability to kill Meta, then he could easily get rid of a drugged up O'Malley. Sure, he had no use of his legs... but he wasn't even tied down. He could manage it. Wash wanted to see him deal with it himself. Maybe then he'd be able to see a glimpse how Donut kept managing to survive.

So Wash just stood there and watched. It was disappointing. Nothing happened. O'Malley just mumbled a lot. And Donut did nothing more than wheeze and thrash around.

Was he so set on keeping up this facade of 'defenseless fruit fairy' that he was letting O'Malley hurt him? If he was that determined to keep it up, he deserved whatever happened to him.

...What if he wasn't keeping up a facade? Wash didn't want to believe that. But if he couldn't repel O'Malley when the psycho was drugged up to the point of being unable to speak... Maybe it really was just luck.

Maybe...

_No, no, no. It couldn't be. He was faking. He had to be._

Wash's thoughts were interrupted by York.

"Okay, I said I'd give you five... what are you doing out—" York was interrupted by Wash making a shushing gesture and pushing him a bit further away from the door, so he couldn't see what was happening.

"Quiet. It's... it's important," Wash insisted.

"Did you leave them in there? Alone?!" York whispered. "Are you insane?!"

"I'm completely and totally sane!"

Before their whispered argument could continue, there was a loud scream from the infirmary.

"Oh god, what've you done?" York groaned.

"I was watching things. If you hadn't interrupted right then..."

* * *

Squirming didn't do shit. But it was all Donut could manage. It was so difficult to breathe, the room was getting kind of fuzzy. He stopped trying to punch O'Malley because it was all he could do to keep air going in and out. So fuzzy... the room was so fuzzy...

O'Malley was too close. They couldn't have been closer. Donut could feel his breath tickling him. And then O'Malley nuzzled closer. He felt teeth. And then O'Malley licked the shell of his ear very slowly.

Donut let out as much of a protest as he could. By now, it was just wheezing. He couldn't breathe in anymore. There was too much pressure. His weak attempts to twist out of O'Malley's grip were completely useless. He felt O'Malley shift, causing a new wave of pain. Then the psycho started biting at his neck. It... was not as rough as Donut would have expected. In fact, it was actually kind of tender. But that didn't make it any less unpleasant.

Donut's vision was getting black at the edges.

"Leff muh... alohh... buh musshoo," O'Malley murmured. "Uthas... no fun." O'Malley moved up a bit, stared Donut right in the face. His expression was impossible to read. "Utha... toes noah fun."

And then O'Malley moved forward again, pressing his mouth against Donut's. At the same time, he shifted, rocking his hips against Donut. He felt something hard rubbing against him.

There was one frozen moment. One frozen moment where Donut's brain just jammed except for a loop of "nononononoohgodwhatnono." And then his brain, which was working badly with the lack of air, suddenly went "FUCK THIS."

And so Donut did the one thing he could to fight back. He bit O'Malley's tongue. Hard.

There was three seconds of thrashing. Donut had no clue what was happening, but his instincts just screamed at him to keep his jaws clamped shut. Three seconds of struggle. Three seconds of his mouth filling up with blood. Until O'Malley managed to pull away. And there was an inhumane scream.

The first thing Donut noticed was that his mouth had more than just O'Malley's blood in it. The second was that O'Malley had let go of his wrists. So Donut raised his arms and shoved O'Malley as hard as he could manage. Which was not very hard, but between the pain and drugs O'Malley had no ability to resist it, and he went toppling off the cot.

It was hard to breathe with a mouthful of blood, so Donut spat it out onto the infirmary floor. He vaguely noticed the door being shoved open, but he was more focused on sucking in huge breaths of air, despite the pain that still seared through his chest. He felt adrenaline pumping through him. But otherwise, his brain was still kind of frozen in a state of confusion.

O'Malley was screaming something that was clearly intended to be words. But it was even more incoherent than what he'd been talking about previously.

* * *

When O'Malley felt those teeth chomp on his tongue... and when he pulled away, probably leaving a chunk of it behind, the fogginess that had been going through his head since he overdosed went away for one horrible second.

He saw things how they really were. Doc wasn't there. Doc would never, ever do that to him. Though he was screaming because of the pain of having his tongue bit in two, he was also screaming because his favourite toy had been taken away from him again. The haze was only lifted for a second. After that second of mind-clearing pain, the fogginess returned. But O'Malley knew now that Doc wasn't really sitting there.

"Donut, you little fucker!" he shrieked, spitting his words through the blood. Or he tried to, at least. Doc... the Doc that wasn't really Doc... was breathing heavily. Staring at him. Wide, confused eyes.

"Holy crap," he heard York say. "I... don't think the hospital can reject him with both the overdose and the... uh... tongue thing."

"You little fucker," O'Malley repeated. "How dare you... take that away from me." How dare he. How dare he take away even the illusion that Doc was back.

"That looks mildly unpleasant," Gary muttered, back again now that O'Malley wasn't so focused on Doc—Donut.

"Shut up, Gary!"

* * *

The full impact of what Donut had just done caught up with him.

_Oh crap, I just bit his tongue in two. That... that's..._

"I need a bucket," Donut whimpered, covering his mouth as the wave of nausea hit him.

"Don't be such a baby," Wash muttered.

"How do we treat this? How do we stop him bleeding out?" York asked. There was just an edge of panic there, and he was staring at Wash rather intensely. "How do you bandage that?"

"I don't know, just... shove a thing of paper towels in there or something."

As Donut continued fighting the urge to throw up, he saw Wash's expression. There was a small, strangely smug smile there.


	94. Chapter 87: Pep Talk

**Chapter Eighty-Seven: Pep Talk**

Once O'Malley had been taken to the hospital (which had been difficult, seeing as he had to be strapped down first, since sedation wasn't allowed so soon after overdosing) the infirmary was completely quiet. No surprise where Donut was concerned, as he was still sitting curled up on his cot, staring at the wall and looking completely terrified. Wash was quiet to begin with, if there was nothing relevant to say or no snarking to do. But York, who hadn't left after getting rid of O'Malley, was sitting there with his arms crossed, refusing to look at Wash.

"Don't you have some kind of work to do?" Wash eventually said.

"I think I'm needed here more than out there," York said frostily.

"I've got it covered."

"Oh, you've got it covered, have you?" There was a short, sarcastic laugh from York. "Really. Somehow, I doubt it."

"What is your problem?"

"Seriously? You have to ask?" York sat there for a moment longer before climbing off his seat. "Outside. Now. Donut, will you be fine for a couple of minutes? We'll be right outside the door." Donut nodded once. "Good."

Once they were outside, there was a few moments of quiet, while York tried to find the right words. In the end, he just settled on the most blunt ones.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What?"

"You left Donut alone with O'Malley. And then just stood there and watched while O'Malley shoved his tongue down his throat. How is that not fucked up?"

"I had reasons."

"Oh, yeah? What kind of reasons? Is this part of your insane paranoia about Donut? Is this some sick, twisted game you're playing? Did you get bored with hitting inmates and decide that it'd be more fun to lock them up with rapists?" York demanded. "I don't care what the reason was, that was just... just sick!"

"I had things under control," Wash insisted. "If he'd gone too far—"

"How far is too far, Wash? Would that be if O'Malley was bending him over the cot? Or would it just be when you got bored?"

"Stop it."

"No. Because you are losing it. Or did you somehow forget what happened the last time you left O'Malley alone with someone?"

Wash flinched like he'd been slapped in the face. "It's nothing like that! I wouldn't..."

"Were you going to wait until Donut had gotten one of his eyes damaged, as well?"

"I didn't mean for you to get hurt," Wash said quietly. York snorted, reaching up and rubbing at his bad eye.

"But you meant for Donut to get hurt, did you?"

"No, I... it's complicated. You wouldn't understand."

"I don't need to." York held out his hand. "Give me the infirmary keys."

"What?"

"You're not going back in there. I'll take over and keep a watch until the new doctor shows up. Give me the keys."

"York, you know less about doctoring than I do."

"Yes, but I don't actively put the patients in danger just for shits and giggles. Now give me the keys!"

"No."

"Fine, then I'll just pick the door open. Stay out of there." York turned around, walked back to the infirmary door. When he had his hand on the doorknob, he turned back to Wash. Wash just stared back.

York only said one more thing before heading back into the infirmary.

"I think... I think drinking is going to be off for a while."

* * *

After breakfast, the inmates were barred from leaving the cafeteria immediately.

"What's going on?" Church mumbled, having not quite woken up yet. He'd spent most of breakfast with his face resting on the table, sleeping.

"I dunno, man. I think Sarge and Cappy are gonna talk to us or something," Tucker said. "Cappy's smiling in that 'motivational speech' kind of way."

"Goddammit."

"Alright! Listen up, ladies!" Sarge yelled out. Once he'd gotten most of the inmates to pay attention, he kept talking. "Okay. In a couple of weeks from now, a prison inspection will be carried out. And I want the place in tip top shape, got it? I know you're all the scum of human society... especially you, Grif!"

"Thanks for the honourable mention," Grif muttered.

"But that don't mean you got a free pass on being ass-munches during this inspection. Anyone who does anything deemed inappropriate during the next couple of weeks is gonna get sent straight to the chair!"

"We don't have the chair, Sarge," Flowers muttered. "Death penalty is illegal. And depressing."

"Straight to the chair!" Sarge repeated.

"You'll be locked up for longer, at the very least," Flowers said. "And I know none of you want that, men. It's very bad for your morale."

"One more thing. If any of you maggots are planning on trying to escape during the inspection... like what happened the last time Vic showed up here... I'm warning you. We'll be triple-checking any cars that go in and out of the prison this time, so no sneaking into the trunk of his car this time."

"And if you try to escape the good old fashioned way, namely by running for it..." Flowers started. "Well, I can't promise I'll hit you in a non-lethal area." He tapped his fingers on the holster that he kept his gun in. "In any case, I won't miss. Although I will miss having you around." He smiled at them. Same friendly smile, although there was just a hint of steel there. Just enough to remind you that he was captain of the guard for a reason. "Are we clear, gentlemen?"

There was some grunts in reply. Flowers seemed to take that as a yes.

"Excellent. Well, I'm sure you're eager to get working. Off you go."

* * *

"Major Twinkie!"

Donut automatically flinched when the door was flung open, although he relaxed a little when he saw it was just Caboose.

"Caboose, aren't you supposed to be working?" York pointed out. "It's not lunchtime yet."

"Oh. Well, I accidentally hurt Tucker. It was his fault. He got in the way of my elbow. He is okay, though. But I am not allowed in the laundry room anymore. They do not like me being there, anyway. I am not allowed near irons. Can I stay and watch Admiral Buttercrust?"

"I assume you mean Donut. Sure, I think he could use someone here. Actually, this means I can go down and grab some food, so I don't have to leave when all the inmates are wandering around. Donut, are you okay with me leaving you with Caboose? If not, I'll find another time to go grab some food."

"No. It's okay," Donut said quietly.

"Okay. I'll be back as soon as possible."

Once York was gone, Caboose sat down next to Donut's cot. "Captain Poppinfresh?"

"Yeah?"

"The Tucker elbow thing was not a complete accident. They do not need protecting in the laundry room, and Tucker was being a meanieface. So now I can stay here with you when everyone is working! That is good, right?"

"Yeah... it's good. I mean, you're a bit late, but I appreciate the thought..."

"Late? Late for what?"

"Uhhh..." Donut shook his head. "Nothing. Just forget I said anything."

"Sergeant Pastry?"

"It's nothing. I was thinking about something else, I didn't mean to..."

"Did something happen?"

"No, nothing happened."

Caboose frowned. "Yes it did. You look scared. Something happened. What happened?"

"It was... O'Malley came in here. And he... he was a bit scary, but..."

"O'Malley? He did things? ...What did he do? Was it hurty?"

"Well, yeah. But only because he was sitting on my bandages. He didn't get a chance to hurt me properly. I'm fine, really."

Caboose tilted his head, squinting at Donut. "You are not saying something. You are not okay."

"No, I'm... I'm fine, really..." Donut tried to smile. He didn't want Caboose to worry about him. It wasn't like anything had really happened, he'd gotten O'Malley a lot better than O'Malley had gotten him. But... the smile was so hard to keep up.

"Muffin Man?"

Donut tried smiling for a few more seconds, even though it was doing its best to try and crumble. "It's fine, it's not like he actually managed... anything... he didn't... I'm... It's..." His eyes were watery. But he wasn't going to cry, that wouldn't help anything, that'd just worry him...

Caboose put a hand on his back, being careful not to poke any bandages. "...Donut?"

There was a few more seconds of nothing, where Donut still tried furiously to maintain his smile and hold anything else back. But he couldn't. The smile crumbled and he started sobbing. He buried his face in Caboose's jacket and just kept crying and babbling.

"—a-and then he was all creepy and grabby and he k-kept talking like I was D-Doc and... and he was s-s-sticking his tongue in and I could feel his dongle and-and-and now I'm scared that he'll b-be back because I bit off some of his tongue and it was gross and, and it only happened b-because stupid Wash keeps saying t-that I'm some kind of expert big-serial-killer-roommate-killer and h-he left me alone there and I-I'm scaaaaaaared! I hate it here! I wanna go hoooome!" After that, he just devolved into more incoherent sobbing, although the words 'gross,' 'tongue' and 'hate' kept coming up again.

Caboose just wrapped his arms around him and patted him on the back, even as Donut made his jacket all wet. Eventually, Donut quieted down to just sniffling, though he still didn't remove his face from Caboose's jacket.

"This place sucks," Donut mumbled, voice somewhat muffled. Tears were still slipping out of his eyes. "I hate it."

"I do not know how to make you feel better," Caboose said quietly. He kept patting Donut on the back. "But hugs are good. And I know I would have liked a hug when I could not go back home."

"Hugs are definitely good. Haven't been getting the required four hugs a day. It's hard to get hugs in here..."

"Yeah. There is not enough hugging..." Caboose frowned. "The only people I think I have seen hugging a lot is Gruf and Simon. And that was naked hugging."

"I don't think that's quite the same," Donut said. He lifted his head up, although he still clung to Caboose. Partly because he'd moved too far forward when he started hugging and now he was rather precariously balanced on the edge of the bed. "If I let go I'm gonna fall off the cot again."

"It is okay. I can keep hugging."

"Ow! Too tight, too tight!"

"Sorry!" Caboose helped Donut lie back down again. "I am sorry."

"It's okay, it's just the... the injuries still hurt... I mean, I think they're getting better, since that hurt less than the last time you hugged too tight—"

"I am sorry. I... I am meant to help you, and I... I could not stop O'Malley."

"It's okay. I don't think you could have been here, it was early... it's not your fault..."

"And... even if I had been here, I would not have been able to do anything because... I cannot do anything to O'Malley. I want to. I want to smash his head like a grape. But I am too scared... Every time he is there, I just..." Caboose shook his head. "I am sorry."

"Stop apologising, okay? I understand. I mean, I still don't understand how O'Malley can terrify you so much... But you can't help that. I'm not gonna shout at you for it."

"I kind of want you to shout at me. Because I hate being shouted at by you, so maybe it would force me to get rid of O'Malley so that I would not have to hear it again."

"But that's mean!"

"I know, but... it might help."

Still too mean... Look. The hugging will do, alright? Speaking of which..." Donut smiled, even though his face still felt very damp, and he held out his arms. "Four hugs a day. We've only had one."


	95. Chapter 88: Flowers And Chocolates

**Chapter Eighty-Eight: Flowers And Chocolates**

"Church! Church! Church!" Caboose bounded into the cafeteria, and immediately started poking Church, who had his face resting on the table again.

"Oh god, what?"

"Major Cinnamon Bun got attacked by O'Malley again."

Church paused, then lifted his head off the table. "Really? Again?"

"Didn't O'Malley threaten to hurt him if you didn't help him escape?" Tucker asked. "You know, just after he cut off Dye-Job's ear?"

"Right, he did. What happened this time, Caboose? And keep it simple and quick so I don't have to listen to you for long."

"O'Malley... um. He..." Caboose hesitated, looking troubled, before he lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "I think he tried to wrestle with him. The really bad kind of wrestle."

"The bad... oh." Church's frown got deeper.

"Ouch." Tucker nudged Church. "Dude, he's trying to take your prison bitch! That's not cool!"

"Shut the fuck up, Tucker!"

"You were wrestling with Muffin Man?" And now Caboose looked mildly freaked out.

"No!"

"Naked hugging?"

"NO!"

Tucker snorted in disbelief before returning to his food. "Well, even if you're not—and you totally are—then O'Malley doesn't know that. Which means O'Malley might have still hurt him because of that. Or maybe he did it for shits and giggles, that also seems like him."

"Hm."

"O'Malley did not get very far, because Admiral Buttercrust bit off part of his tongue."

"Dude, ow."

"And now he is very sad and scared. And he has not been getting enough hugs." Caboose gave Church a rather stern look. "If you have been doing the naked hugging with him, then you have not been doing it well enough."

"CABOOSE! DONUT IS NOT MY PRISON BITCH!" Church screamed. Which most of the people at the surrounding tables to send disturbed glances in his direction, and Tucker started roaring with laughter. "What are you all looking at?!" He sent a death glare in Tucker's direction. "See what you've done? Now he's gonna be pestering me to get Dye-Job flowers because that's what couples do in movies!"

"Muffin Man does like flowers," Caboose mused. "And cake."

"Great, he's never gonna shut up. You happy?!"

"A little bit," Tucker said, still sniggering.

"I hate you all. There's not a word strong enough to describe it. In fact, now visiting Dye-Job is actually starting to sound like a better option than sitting here with you two." Church shoved his mostly empty tray away and stood up, before storming out. He heard footsteps behind him, and looked back to see Caboose following him.

"Oh god, what now?"

"Church... I do not want to protect Tucker. He is a meanieface."

"Tough luck, now go back and keep watch."

"But he is not the one getting hurt. Captain Cookie is. And I have too many people to protect, I have to protect you and Muffin Man and Lopez, even though Lopez is also a meanieface—"

"Then stop protecting Lopez."

"I cannot, Sheila said I have to."

"So what?"

"So I have to."

"Look, I don't care how well you do protecting Lopez or Dye-Job. I don't even care if you suck at protecting me. But you have to protect Tucker, alright?"

"Fine. But he is a jerkface."

"I know, I know. And while we're on the subject, no more elbowing him to get out of laundry duty. He was bitching about that for hours."

"Okay."

* * *

"This means we owe O'Malley something even worse then, don't we?" Simmons muttered to Grif. As he did so, Tucker edged his chair towards them to listen.

"Of course we do! If 'the bad kind of wrestling' means what I think it means... It means rape, right?"

"Think so."

"Then we definitely got to! That's... that's... just... urgh!" Grif looked pretty pissed off. Tucker figured he was still using Donut as a sister substitute or something. Sad. Like when Church tried to make Caboose a little brother substitute, even if he gave up on that after two days.

"Yeah, that's pretty sick. Okay, I'm still in." Simmons propped his chin on his hand. "But Church said that if we really wanted to stop O'Malley, we'd actually have to... you know." He drew his thumb across his throat. "If we get caught doing that, we'll probably be stuck in here forever."

Tucker frowned a bit at this, before saying, "True. But O'Malley's such a douchebag. He really needs to be buried six feet under, you know?"

Caboose had trotted back to them and plopped down into his seat, quickly twisting around to look at Lopez before he returned to staring at Tucker. He'd been doing that a lot lately, and it was honestly starting to get really creepy.

"Yeah, I know. Besides, he'll just go back to being all up in Donut's grill if we leave him alone," Grif said, prodding at his food.

"And by 'grill' you mean 'organs,' and by 'all up in' you mean 'stabbing?'" Simmons asked.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"I want to help," Caboose said.

"Help? Hey, yeah. You've already got life without parole, you can kill him without risking your freedom," Grif said, but Tucker shook his head.

"Nah, guy's a fucking wuss when it comes to O'Malley. Freaks out if he's just nearby."

"He is scary."

"Right... Then how are you going to help?"

Caboose shrugged. "I do not know. But I want to. Because O'Malley is a mean, mean man who deserves to be squished. And I do not want him hurting Muffin Man anymore."

"Well... We'll figure out something, then. Once we figure out where the hell he is. He's gotta get back from hospital first, right? Guess we gotta—"

"Stop staring at me!" Tucker yelled. Grif raised an eyebrow. "Not you! Caboose won't stop staring. It's fucking creepy."

"I am not staring."

"You're staring right now!"

Caboose just kept going. Staring. He didn't even seem to be blinking.

"No, I am not."

"Dude, seriously! I'm already pissed off about you elbowing me earlier."

"That was an accident."

"No, it wasn't. And you hit one of my bad ribs, you douchebag!"

"Stop yelling at me. It is not nice."

"Your face isn't nice!"

"That was a burn," Grif muttered through a mouthful of food.

* * *

"You are so going to die when O'Malley comes back."

Donut frowned, looking up at Church. "Oh, thanks, that makes me feel better." He watched Church sit down on a stool, head tilted a bit. "Er, why are you here?"

"Because Tucker and Caboose were both being annoying. Also, uh... So, O'Malley attacked you again?" Donut nodded. "Yeah, that might be my bad."

"What?!"

"O'Malley still thinks we're a thing, and he threatened to hurt you if I didn't help him escape."

"He wants to escape?" York had been sitting in the corner, looking through the medication, and he looked up at those words. "Is that why he's been acting up so much lately?

"Hell if I know."

"So the only reason I'm getting hurt just because he still thinks we're fucking? That's bullshit, Church! Bullshit!" Donut crossed his arms and made a face that was probably supposed to be defiant, but that just made him look like a pouting little girl. "I'm not doing it. He comes back, I'm telling him the truth."

"Don't you dare!" Church snapped. "He's gonna be attacking you anyway for biting off his tongueThat's pretty cool, by the way, I'll admit that."

"It wasn't cool, it was disgusting!"

"Still, he'll attack you anyway, so don't go dragging Tucker into it." Church shifted on the stool. "Don't get me wrong, I do actually feel a little bit bad about shoving you into these situations. Just a little. I mean, the whole 'murderous inmates out to get you' thing? Been there."

"Of course you have, you're a blackmailing jerk," Donut muttered.

"Yeah, but even before that I was pretty despised. Comes with the territory of... particular crimes. Even criminals hate you if you've been accused of some of the real stinkers."

"Bigger than murder?"

"There's different kinds of murder, Donut." York had looked up again from the pills. "Depends on who you killed, how many, all that stuff. I think there's a kind of invisible line that people can cross, that makes them nasty to even other criminals. Usually it has to involve either rape, murder or children. The worst obviously being ones that involve all three."

"Yeah, murdering pedophiles never last very long in here," Church said, nodding. "If I'd done that, I would have been dead a long time ago."

"Then what did you do?"

"Ehhh..." Church frowned. "I did a lot of stuff, it's hard to remember the details. Doesn't matter, point is that I've been through the whole 'everyone trying to kill you' thing. It totally sucks."

"Gee, I hadn't realised!" Donut said sarcastically. "I thought that getting hospitalized and having to rip off people's tongues was just lovely fun!"

"Whatever. Anyhow, if he comes back, just... I don't know, bite off the rest of his tongue."

"But that was gross!"

"Oh, cry a river, why don't you?" Church raised his hand, rubbed his thumb and finger together. "See this? It's the world's smallest violin. Listen to the music playing in honour of your most recent shitstorm."

"Shut up. You know, you're doing a really crap job at convincing me to keep this whole Tucker thing a secret."

"Yeah, well, if I gotta sit through his mocking about us—"

"You mean even Tucker thinks we're doing the horizontal shoe shuffle?"

"In my defence, I actually tried to tell him we're not. He won't listen. And now he's even convinced Caboose that we're... what kind of a phrase is 'horizontal shoe shuffling?' Anyway, if I gotta put up with those two being idiots, then I'm not losing the only good part about O'Malley's dumbass assumptions."

"You know what'd stop them? If you just admitted to Tucker that—"

"It's not happening!"

"You're such a wuss! This prison needs more romance!" Donut insisted.

"No, it doesn't. Really. And suddenly, hanging around with you is making me want to go back to the cafeteria again. Even though Caboose is gonna keep pestering me to get you flowers."

"Flowers would be nice..."

"Shut up."


	96. Chapter 89: A New Alliance

**Chapter Eighty-Nine: A New Alliance**

"We gotta move you," York said the next morning, a little after breakfast. Donut and Caboose both looked up, temporarily stopping a rather indepth discussion about soft toys they had played with as kids.

"Move me? Am I going back to my cell?" Donut asked hopefully.

"Not until you can walk. But you're going back to the main infirmary. It's clean enough to use again, finally got the stains out of the floor. Disembowelments are messy,"

Donut winced at the memory, before asking, "Why now, though? Wouldn't it just be difficult to move me back at the moment? Seeing as how I can't walk and all?"

"Well... while that's true, we need this room. We're also getting O'Malley back from the hospital. And unlike Wash, I'm not dumb enough to leave you in the same room as him. So we're sticking him in here and moving you to the proper infirmary."

"He's back? Not dead, then?" On one hand, Donut was disappointed and terrified, because O'Malley not being dead meant he was... well, alive... and that he was probably not going to be too happy at Donut. But part of him was relieved that he hadn't killed another person, even if it was O'Malley.

"No, not dead. And, sadly, he'll probably regain his speaking ability eventually. For now, he isn't saying anything. But it won't last long, apparently they managed to reattach the part of his tongue you bit off. Still, very stitchy. The most he can manage at the moment are grunts and rather vague, painful noises."

"Alright... Um. About that. Since I—"

"You won't be charged with anything. It was obviously self-defence, since he would have had to have his tongue inside your mouth for you to manage that. And besides, Wash was... well, watching. If he tries to deny that it was self-defence, I'll kick him."

"Crazy douchebag," Donut muttered.

"Yeah." York frowned for a moment, before saying, "I'm just waiting for North to get up here and help me move stuff—"

"You called?" North strolled in. "Hey, Donut. How's the... everything?"

"Crappy."

"That sucks."

"Yeah, yeah, you can have small talk once we're done." York nodded at North before continuing. "We'll move everything we don't want left in here before we move you back to the infirmary. Caboose, can you make sure no-one comes in and does anything weird?"

"Okay."

"Awesome. And keep Wash out of here if he shows up."

"Okay."

York and North busied themselves with grabbing any boxes of medication that needed to be moved back to the infirmary before leaving Donut and Caboose alone again.

Once York and North were gone and they could no longer hear North's rambling, Caboose frowned. "I do not like O'Malley being back. He still needs to be smooshed like a grape."

"Yeah."

"I hope Gruf and Simon can do it. I think they are planning on it."

"What?"

"Oh. Well, they have been wanting to make O'Malley fall over ever since he cut off your ear. Which was very, very bad... And he attacked you again, and now they are letting me help!"

"No, no, no, you have to tell them to stop that, okay?"

"Why? If O'Malley was gone, everyone would be happier. You and me and Gruf and Simon and Church... and even stupid Tucker wants to help."

"Tucker? Really?" Donut asked skeptically. Grif and Simmons were his friends, so he could understand them wanting to help, and he still had blackmail material on Church... but he'd never heard of Tucker doing anything unselfish, not to mention they were on bad terms to begin with.

"Yes. Even he is not stupid enough to like O'Malley."

"But what if they get caught? Then they'll get stuck in here forever and it'll be my fault."

"Why would it be your fault? It is O'Malley's fault for being such a... such a..." Caboose struggled with his words for a moment, before saying "It is his fault for being such a... pissmidget."

"A what?!"

"I heard Church say that word once."

"Please don't do anything really bad, I don't want you, or Grif or Simmons, to get into trouble."

"Can Tucker get into trouble?"

"No, I even object to that. Church would be heartbroken."

"He would? He did get very sad when Miller hurt him, but Tucker says that Church was naked hugging with you."

"Naked huggi—okay, this ridiculousness has got to stop. Next time you see Tucker, tell him to come up here." Donut shook his head. "It's just so wrong..."

"So, you and Church are not naked hugging?"

"No, Tucker's just stupid for believing it."

"Oh. That makes sense."

* * *

O'Malley hated a great many things, but one of the things he despised most was his recent lack of tongue.

Oh, sure, it'd been reattached. Although how well it'd heal was up in the air... In any case, it was far too painful to speak at the moment and O'Malley wasn't sure how well he'd be able to, even without the pain. It was irritating. His voice was one of his better weapons. Physical damage was fun, but psychological damage often lasted longer and was just as amusing.

He'd seen proof of that after what he'd done to Wash so many years ago. The physical injuries had healed, but he still freaked out when someone turned off the lights. And it made O'Malley practically tingle with joy.

But how were you supposed to psychologically scar someone without words? It was possible, but a lot more difficult.

O'Malley stared at the wall angrily. There was nothing else he could do. Unfortunately, York had been smart enough not to return him to the same room as the pastry. Instead, he was stuck in the temporary infirmary, with the door locked and absolutely nothing interesting to look at. Quite unfortunate. It was just like being in solitary again, except that the room was slightly bigger and there was a first-aid box in here.

He stared at the wall some more. His mind wandered to the little things that pissed him off. Namely, the little shiny things on cupcakes. He recalled a moment a couple of years ago, when he'd still been on heavy medication that made it seem like staring at his own hands was a valid way to pass the time. It had been his birthday, apparently. Because Doc had handed him a little cupcake. One with those ridiculous shiny things on top. O'Malley was sure, in hindsight, that it was mostly an attempt to keep him distracted. But only Doc... only Doc would give tiny frosted pastries to the man who tormented him day after day.

Doc just couldn't help being nice to people, could he? So why was he being so cruel right now? Staying away from his rightful owner was the worst kind of cruelty. O'Malley scowled at the wall. He would have tried making a break for it at the hospital, but he was strapped down the entire time. At least, he thought he was. It was rather hazy, he just recalled a lot of Gary's knock-knock jokes.

Gary had left once they had treated him for the overdose. So had the many, many other voices. It was, perhaps, the only thing he was feeling good about at the moment. Getting half his tongue ripped off because he hallucinated a vision of his absent plaything was bad, but it seemed worse when a dead co-worker was following you around both snarking at you about it and making continuous knock-knock jokes.

As O'Malley was recalling some of the more tedious jokes, a knocking came from the door.

"I know you're in there, O'Malley. I want a word with you." That was Miller's voice. O'Malley stayed silent, although he had little choice in the matter. He could make noises, but none of them were particularly dignified.

A few moments passed, then Miller said, "If you're listening, knock twice on the door."

O'Malley stayed still for a few more moments before sliding off his bed, approaching the door and knocking twice on it. Couldn't hurt, and it was more interesting that recalling knock-knock jokes.

"I want your help with something. It concerns Tucker."

O'Malley grinned just a little at this. He could guess what Miller wanted. And he did owe Tucker for threatening him with a screwdriver weeks back. He'd been so concerned with getting Doc back that he'd forgotten about it.

"I know you have problems with your tongue and all, but I managed to get some paper and a pencil off Wyoming. You willing to listen? Knock twice if you are."

Knock. Knock. Once he did that, paper and a pencil was slipped under the door.

"Problem's pretty simple. I want Tucker to have a very painful, fatal accident. But Caboose is in the way, and he threatened to kill me if I so much as touched him. And I don't doubt that he will, after... well, the hand thing. So... how do I get rid of that ape?"

O'Malley considered this for a moment, before picking up the pencil and trying to write down his reply. The key word being 'try' because his hands, as always, were shaking too badly to perform the finer actions. He had to try several times before he came up with something remotely readable. Even then, it looked like it'd been written by a five-year-old.

He wrote two sentences. _I will help. But you have to do something in return._

"Depends what you want done," Miller said once he'd read the reply. He pushed the paper back again.

_There is a phone number carved on the wall of my cell. I will write down a message. You will phone the number and tell the one on the other side the message._

"That's an odd request. But alright. That it?"

_Yes. Do that first. Then return here._

"How do I know you'll keep your side of the deal?"

_Because I'm bored and I enjoy making people suffer. That's how._

"Okay. What's the message?"

* * *

O'Malley was disturbing. That much was certain. But Miller wasn't about to reject his help just because he was a little creepy and stalker-ish. Miller fumbled with the phone. He'd had to pay for the call himself, but it was a small price for the help, and he had no chance of getting rid of Caboose on his own.

The phone rang four times. On the fifth ring, someone picked up.

"Hello?"

Miller recognised the voice. Although it was obscured slightly from the amount of noise in the background. "Doc? How'd he get your number?"

"Uh, who is this?"

"You remember me? You mangled my hands after I... erm, 'caught them in a door?'"

"Miller? Oh... Oh, oh no... O'Malley gave you this number, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he did. Look, I'm just going to get this over with. He can't talk right now, due to that fruity guy biting his tongue in half—"

"Wait, what?!"

"But he wanted me to pass on a message. He says that you're, um..." Miller squinted at the shaky scribbling that was O'Malley's note. "You're making him very disappointed by not coming back here... That if you don't return very soon, he'll have no choice but to break out and find you—he's particularly emphasising that you can't hide from him—and that you're going to be in huge trouble when you come back, because it's apparently your fault that Donut bit off his tongue. The writing gets rather incomperehensible after that, but I think it has a very angry tone. ...Doc, you still there?"

"Oh no, no, no... He wouldn't really break out, would he?"

"Hell if I know. He's one crazy fucker, that one. Wouldn't put it past him. ...Look, I have to ask something out of curiousity, alright?"

"Um... okay."

"Has he called you before?"

"Once."

"And I assume that's a pretty shit thing to happen, right?"

"I wouldn't phrase it so harshly... but yes..."

"Then why the hell haven't you changed your number?"

"Uh, because that... that would be... that, um..." Doc paused for a long time. The relative silence was interrupted by someone in the background yelling at him to get back to work and start delivering lattes. "Uh... I have to go. Please... please don't call me again... I'm sorry, that's mean, but..."

"Hey, it's not me you have to worry about. Want me to pass the message onto O'Malley?"

"I would appreciate that, but can you phrase it in a polite, delicate way?"

"No problem."

* * *

"Yeah, he told you to fuck off and stop calling him."

O'Malley scowled at the wall, before writing a new message on the paper. _I assume that means he doesn't plan to return._

"Oh, you think? Now tell me how to get rid of Caboose."

O'Malley kept scowling for a few moments. He'd have to seriously consider escaping, Doc was clearly insistent on avoiding him. Ridiculous. He shook his head before returning to Miller's question.

_It's quite obvious._

"Oh, really? Why don't you fucking enlighten me, then?!"

_Caboose and Tucker despise each other, even at the best of times. Convince Caboose that protecting Tucker is not in Church's best interests. Shouldn't be hard, Tucker is a con-artist. He's naturally untrustworthy. Turn Caboose against Tucker and he will either stop protecting him or he will destroy Tucker himself, depending on how well you manage it. Getting Tucker killed by his 'protection' would be much sweeter than simply stabbing him yourself, wouldn't it?_

There was a few moments of silence before he heard Miller say, "That's fucked up."

_Yes. It is._

"I am definitely in."


	97. Chapter 90: Schoolgirl Gossip

**Chapter Ninety: Schoolgirl Gossip**

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

Andy raised an eyebrow at Miller. He was playing with a lighter, the flame flickering on and off. "You want a word with me, Millsey? The hell would you wanna talk to me for?"

"Because I need your help with—"

"Okay, stop right there. I don't have any swing in this prison. If you need something set on fire, I'm your man. If not, then take a hike. I got shit to do, like finding someone dumb enough to play 'jacketfire' with, and I'm already sick of looking at you."

Miller sighed, before removing a lighter from his pocket. Why must bribery always be needed? "I'll give you this lighter if you listen."

"Deal. Hand it over." Miller tossed it at him, and Andy caught it with a grin. "Sweet. Need all the spares I can get. Those dickweed guards keep taking them off me."

"Don't care."

"Alright, what do you want?"

"I need someone that gets along with Caboose, but who doesn't really associate with either Church or Tucker. You friendly with him?"

"With Caboose? Sure. Church doesn't like talking to me because I piss him off. So he always sends Caboose. We play games, mostly ones concerning fires. What's your point?"

"Would he listen to you?"

"It took me, like, ten seconds to convince him that 'jacketfire' was a legit game. What do you think?"

Miller sat down on the bench next to Andy, as the pyromaniac continued playing around with the lighter. "So. Say you told him that Tucker was, I dunno, conspiring against Church—"

"Uh, that might be a bit harder."

"Oh?"

"He thinks Tucker is a dickhead, but if I told him that Tucker was tricking Church... that would imply that Church was wrong about trusting him. And dunno if you've noticed, but Caboose thinks the sun shines outta that guy's ass. Thinks that every little thing he says is right." Andy flicked the lighter on again, feeling around for his packet of cigarettes. "Let's say I told Caboose that Tucker was being a two-faced jerkwad. Caboose would immediately go to Church and ask if it was true. Church would say 'fuck no.' And Caboose would agree, come back and tell me I was being silly."

"Would it hurt for you to try?"

"Probably not. But you gotta make it worth my while, buttmunch."

"Urgh... Fine, what'll it take?"

"I want some flammable liquid, some bottles and some rags... enough to make a decent amount of molotovs."

"For one fucking conversation?"

"Hey, you can ask someone else. No-one's forcing you to pay up."

"Grah." Miller crossed his arms, thought about it for a few long moments. "Fine. But I need a couple of days to come up with the stuff. Maybe longer, depends on where I get the stuff from."

* * *

"Hey, I can walk there myself, quit dragging me around!"

Donut heard the voices long before Caboose pushed the door to the infirmary open and dragged Tucker in.

"Captain Biscuit! I brought Tucker here, now you can talk to him."

"I... I only needed you to tell him to come here."

"Yes. But then Tucker said that he was not going to visit you because you were a... cooked salad."

"I didn't fucking say that. I just said he was a fruit. How the fuck did you even get that?" Tucker snapped. Caboose frowned, before edging towards the door.

"I have to go back and protect Church now. Bye, Muffin Man! Bye, Mister York!"

York just grunted in response, turning the pages of the newspaper he was reading. Tucker crossed his arms, rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet for a few moments.

"Did you actually want something? Or did you get Caboose to pull my arm out of its' socket because you were bored?"

"I'm trying to think of the words, give me a minute!" Donut drummed his fingers against the sheets, pondering on how to start the conversation.

He could recall a lot of incidents in high school where he'd opened similar conversations wrong. Normally when he was trying to admit to a guy that he liked them. That normally ended with him being shouted at. That is, if he didn't get beat up or get his head shoved in a toilet. Even if this was telling someone that someone else liked him, instead.

"Uhhhh..." Donut drummed his fingers some more. "I'm getting there, I swear."

"Well, maybe if you rush you'll finish by the end of the millennium," Tucker grumbled. "Come on, Dye-Job! I got things to do. ...Bow chika bow wow. Seriously, talk to Caboose if you're bored. Or Grif, Simmons or Church, don't care fucking who. Just stop bugging me."

"Alright, I'll be quick... So, uh... You know how you think me and Church are—"

"That you're bumping uglies? Yeah, I heard. It's gross. No accounting for taste, I guess." Tucker shivered. "Now I can't get the mental image of all that pale ass out of my head."

"And now I've got that mental image, too. Lovely," York muttered, massaging his forehead. At that moment, the infirmary door swung open. Wash was standing there. He briefly glanced at Donut and Tucker before focusing his attention on York.

"York? Can I talk to you?"

York scowled, but said, "If it gets me away from this conversation, I guess." He climbed out of his chair. "No-one kill anyone while I'm gone, I'll be right outside."

"Okay."

Once York was gone, Donut blinked a few times. "Uhhh... I forgot where I was."

"Bumping uglies."

"Right. See, that's the thing. We're not... we're not doing that. You're right, that's gross. Church is older than my mum! Well, one of them... Anyway, point is that it's not true."

"Uh, yes it is. I heard it. O'Malley said it, and not in a 'making shit up just to get gross mental images into my head' way. He didn't even know I was there when he said that."

"Well, O'Malley's wrong. He's on the wrong roof."

Tucker narrowed his eyes for a moment, leaning back on his chair. "Did Church put you up to this?"

"What?"

"I've been kinda mocking him for the last couple of weeks about whatever you two got going on. Is this his way of getting me to stop?"

"No, Church didn't tell me to do anything. But you're interrupting my original point!"

"I don't even know what your point is, I got lost when you started talking about roofs."

"My point is... that if me and Church were going at it, he'd probably be thinking of you while it was happening."

There was a long stretch of silence.

"What the fuck?!"

"That sounded better in my head."

"Dye-Job. Please say you're just high on painkillers. Because I don't think I wanna hear the rest of this conversation."

"But I've already started, and... Church is way into you. He likes you. I mean... like-likes you."

"Shut up, Dye-Job."

"But it's true. He wants to hit that! And by that, I mean you. In bed."

Tucker had plugged his ears by this point. "Not listening!"

"What? You can make a double entendre out of everything, and I can't say anything similar?"

"No, you can't! Now shut up!"

"Oh, come on, hear me out! First off, have you ever seen me and Church doing anything, anything at all, that would imply we were tight?"

"Well, of course not! It's not like you'd go fucking each other in the middle of the yard—"

"And he's got Caboose watching you practically non-stop because he's so freaked out at the idea of anyone attacking you."

"Yeah, because he needs someone to help him with all the blackmailing stuff..."

"When Miller smashed us both? The entire time you were in hospital, Church was completely off his rocker. Never seen him so upset. He was so terrified that you were gonna die. It was kinda scary, really."

Tucker didn't say anything in response to this. He was staring at the opposite wall, arms crossed. He didn't look happy. At all. He was wearing a mixed expression, somewhere between thoughtful, disturbed and pissed off.

That was not what Donut was going for.

"Tucker? Hey, you still listening?"

"No."

"Oh, come on."

"Just... just stop talking, alright? I'm just gonna leave now, pretend this fucking conversation never happened."

"What?! It took me forever to figure out how to tell you, you can't just forget about it!"

"Yeah? You ever consider that, maybe, this is the kind of shit I'd rather not know about?!" Tucker stood up, glaring at Donut so angrily that he was honestly shocked he didn't burst into flames. "Look. I don't care about this, alright? I don't care about whatever stupid gay fantasies you've made up in that bleached head of yours—"

"I don't even have any dye in my hair..."

"—I don't give a shit about any of it! All I want you to do is keep that crap to yourself!"

"But—"

"Can't you take a goddamn hint?!" Tucker screamed at him. "I. Don't. Care. Shut. Up. Dusting my hands of this conversation! Never talk to me again, at least until you've gotten off this... whatever the fuck you're on."

Tucker stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Donut mouthed wordlessly for a couple of seconds, still stuck on the train of thought that he'd been on, mostly consisting of 'why are you so pissed about this?' Then he covered his face with his hands.

_I should have picked a better way to break it to him..._

* * *

"Okay, what do you want?" York asked, arms crossed. Wash didn't say anything for a few moments. He didn't really like the glare York was sending at him. If he was wimpier, he might have actually recoiled at it.

"What will it take for you to start talking to me again?"

"Not ready yet. Still angry."

"Well, how do I make you not angry, then? I'm pretty sure the glaring won't help."

York rolled his eyes, before saying, "Well, first off? You gotta apologise."

"I'm sorry?"

"That was the crappiest apology I've ever heard. And I didn't mean apologise to me. I meant you gotta say sorry to Donut for, you know, getting him attacked."

"It's not going to happen. I will not apologise to that... that..." Wash struggled with the words, but then he just settled with, "That jerk. What's the second thing?"

""Tell me what your deal is with him. Why him? He's, like, the most harmless guy I've ever seen in this place. Of all people, why him? What's up with your crazy obsession?"

Wash looked away from York. "I... I can't say."

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't get it."

"Won't know that until you try."

"Oh, yeah, then I'll just make up some crap about being 'obsessed' with that fruit fairy because he screwed up my chances at revenge against someone who locked me in their basement for a long period of time," Wash said, voice heavily laced with sarcasm.

"Is that code for 'just assume you're crazy?'"

"I'm sane. Completely—"

"And totally sane, I've heard it before."

The infirmary door slammed open, and Tucker went storming by, growling something about 'fucking gay fantasies.'

"So. You're not gonna apologise and you're not gonna tell me what's up?"

"No. I can't."

"Then we don't have anything to talk about." York went back inside the infirmary. Wash stared at the door for a few minutes more.

"...Sorry," he muttered.


	98. Chapter 91: FILSS

**Chapter Ninety-One: FILSS**

Three days later, York was cleaning up all the files he'd left scattered around the infirmary, trying to get the place back to some resemblance of tidiness. When he'd started tidying up, it had looked like a bomb filled with paper had blown up. Rather amazing since York had been there less than a week. Now it just looked the regular kind of messy, which was an improvement over 'paper bomb.'

"I don't think I can sort this out in time," York muttered. "Knew I should have cleaned up earlier."

"Why're you cleaning up now?" Donut asked. He was sitting up. It was significantly less painful than it had been a week ago. He hadn't tried walking again since the O'Malley incident, but he was sure he'd be able to at least try in a couple more days.

"Oh, we're getting a new doctor. An actual proper doctor, from what I hear. As opposed to, you know, guards who have no business being anywhere near the infirmary."

"Okay. Cool."

"In retrospect, I probably should have put these files in order instead of just pushing them off to the side after reading them."

"Yeah. That would have helped."

"Hm. Well... no use moping about it."

As York stacked up some of the remaining files, the door swung open. A tall woman with dark hair stepped in, looking around with mild interest.

"Hello? Are you the temporary doctor?"

"Doctor is... a massive overstatement. But yeah."

"I'll take over, then. Is there anything I need to know?"

"The medication is listed... somewhere around here, Donut doesn't really need any close attention but he still can't walk, and there's a guy in another room called O'Malley. Be careful around him. Don't take any sharp objects in there, especially."

"Okay. Where's that room?"

"I'll write it down..."

After a couple of minutes, during which York explained where O'Malley was being kept, and also why the infirmary was so messy (Donut was pretty sure he heard him blame it on Wash) York left. The woman eyed the mess of files before turning to Donut.

"Hello. I'm Dr. Filss. If you prefer, you may call me Sheila."

"Sheila? Oh, I thought I'd seen you before! You're Lopez's girlfriend."

"Wife, actually."

"Really? I thought he said he killed his wife."

"Why do people keep saying that? No. Lopez never killed his wife."

"But I could swear he said that..." Donut shrugged. "Well, maybe my Spanish is a little off. I could be wrong."

"Yes, you could. So?"

"I got beat up, stabbed, had my ear cut off and I have a broken gaydar. But I'll be fine. As long as you don't leave me alone with lunatics. ...Can you fix my gaydar?" Donut asked hopefully.

"Fixing gaydars wasn't covered in med school."

"Well... it should be."

"Perhaps. But it's not... a common illness." Sheila nodded before picking up the directions York had left her. "I should go and check on the other patient."

"Be careful. He's a whack-a-doodle."

"Thank you for the warning... I didn't catch your name."

"Donut."

Sheila paused, then smiled slightly. "Ah. Admiral Buttercrust."

"Yeah, that's me."

"Hm. Well, besides giving Caboose the idea that Lopez was a serial wife killer—"

"My bad."

"—you don't seem too bad. From what Caboose said, you sounded like a much better influence than the other man he always talks about. I think his name was Church?"

"Yeah. Church is kind of a dick."

* * *

Breakfast was quiet.

Of course, Grif and Simmons were arguing like always. But they never really directed conversation towards anyone but each other. With the exception of Donut, if he was around. Not that Church cared, he didn't want any part of their ridiculous discussions of which superheroes would beat who in a fight. (Today, it was a question of who out of the Silver Surfer or the Flash would win.)

Caboose was pretty much silent during meal times now because he always spent it keeping a watch on people. He barely ever touched his food because he was too busy craning his neck to make sure Lopez wasn't being attacked. It had gotten to the point where Church had to threaten him into eating, sometimes.

Still, at least Church knew why Caboose was quiet. He didn't get why Tucker was so silent all of a sudden.

It'd been going on for, like, three days now. Normally, Tucker had a constant stream of crap to talk about. Talking on and on about Junior, or old cons he'd pulled on the outside, or mocking Church for whatever he could think of, or going on about all the women he'd banged. Blah blah blah blah blah. Tucker would never shut up, and normally Church just ignored him. But it felt weird not having that constant stream of garbage as background noise.

"Church, Church, Church!" Caboose whispered.

"Oh god, what?"

"Miller is talking to Lopez."

"What?" Church leaned slightly to the left, so he could see Lopez from where he was sitting. He accidentally elbowed Tucker at the same time. "Hey, Tucker, you're in the way. Scoot for a second, will you?"

Tucker muttered something under his breath. Church definitely caught the word 'dickface' in there. But he did shift his chair. Church managed to get a glimpse of Miller and Lopez. Neither were staring in his direction. Miller was doing pretty much all the talking. Lopez was frowning.

A couple of moments later, Miller went to sit down somewhere else. And a couple of minutes after that, Lopez got up and left. Church went back to prodding at his food. Miller was probably up to something. Why else would he go talking to Lopez?

"Caboose."

"Yes, Church?"

"Follow Lopez. See where he goes. Be subtle, for fuck's sake. And that doesn't mean humming 'secret agent' music while you're following him, regardless of what stupid games you've played with Donut."

"Oh god, not Double Oh Donut. Don't even bring that up," Simmons grumbled. "Three hours of listening to him making jetpack noises."

"Ah, that was hell," Grif reminisced.

"But..." Caboose started. I have to watch you and—uh. And watch things."

Tucker's scowl got deeper when Caboose said that.

"It'll be fine. Go on, before he gets out of sight."

"Okay." Caboose climbed to his feet and went the same way Lopez had gone, leaving his hardly touched tray of food behind. Grif immediately reached out, took the fresh fruit sitting on the tray and put it on his own.

"Finders keepers," Grif muttered, before returning to arguing why the Silver Surfer was better.

Church pushed his cereal around some more. It was soggy by now.

"I don't need fucking protection."

That was the longest sentence that Tucker had said to him in three days. Church only hesitated for a second before responding.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not stupid, Church. You got Caboose watching me non-stop. Always with those fucking eyes... I don't need the protection, so tell him to fuck off."

"Still don't know what you're talking about," Church lied. "Besides, what harm could it do? If Miller's gonna be a bitch and attack again—"

"Then I'll deal with it myself." Tucker stood up. "I don't need your help, so drop it."

Church frowned, before climbing to his feet and following. "Oh yeah? You'll deal with it, will you? That worked real well for you last time, didn't it?"

"Shut up."

"You got more ribs to cushion the beatings with, do you?"

"I said shut up, alright?" Tucker snapped. He tried storming out of the cafeteria, but Church was right on his heels.

"What's the big fucking deal? So Caboose ends up staring at you for a bit. That's a lot better than getting killed!"

"Hey, I told you to shut up like twice now! So, shut up and fuck off!"

"You fuck off!"

"I'm trying, you keep following me!"

"Gah, I mean stay there and stop being a jerkoff!"

"No!"

The arguing continued as Tucker tried to escape to the cells, and Church insisted on following him, trying to figure out what the hell was up his ass.

* * *

Sneaking was hard.

"I am sneaking, I am sneaking, I am sneaking," Caboose whispered to himself as he followed Lopez, hiding behind various corners. He was getting funny looks from any other inmates that passed by. But Lopez didn't notice him, so he was doing a good job.

Lopez did not look happy. He never looked happy. Which was good, because he was a mean man who did not deserve to be happy. Still. He looked less happy.

He kept walking, and Caboose kept following. Until Lopez stopped at a door. The door to the temporary infirmary they'd been keeping Captain Biscuit until a few days ago. Lopez knocked on it three times. Caboose crouched and watched.

Lopez didn't say anything. But a piece of paper came out from underneath the door. Lopez read it, scribbled something on it and pushed the piece of paper back. This happened many times. Lopez was scowling more and more as it went along.

Caboose wondered what they were writing. He wondered who Lopez was writing to.

"Caboose, what are you doing?"

Caboose yelped and jumped away from the voice. Which meant accidentally jumping where Lopez could clearly see him. But that didn't matter at the moment, because he was staring at someone who was not supposed to be in the prison. "...Sheila?!"

"Why were you crouching there?"

Caboose ignored the question. He was still confused. Why was Sheila there? "Sheila? Are you a policelady now? Did you get arrested?!"

Lopez had looked around when Caboose first shouted Sheila's name. And when he saw Sheila, he went very pale. He stepped away from the door, ignoring the piece of paper that was being pushed under it again.

He stepped towards Sheila. Once, twice. He didn't say anything. Sheila smiled sheepishly, tapping one foot on the ground behind her. She didn't say anything either, maybe she couldn't think of anything to say. They both just stared at each other.

Then Lopez pulled her forward and hugged her really tightly. He said something in Spaniard, but Caboose didn't know what he meant. Sheila said something else in Spaniard and rubbed his back fondly. It was clearly a very nice hug. But it made Caboose's stomach twist a little. Not in a good way.

He tried looking away from them, and saw the piece of paper near the door. The one that Lopez had been pushing underneath it. It was covered in writing. Caboose frowned, walked past Sheila and Lopez (they weren't noticing anything but each other at the moment) and picked it up. He couldn't read the writing. But Sheila probably could.

"Sheila—" Caboose started, once Sheila pulled away from Lopez. But Sheila immediately stopped him.

"Caboose, normally I'd love to talk. But I have to check on the patient. Maybe after?"

Lopez went even paler at this. Caboose wondered why. Sheila smiled at him (although she gave a bigger smile to Lopez) and then she opened the door and slipped through it.

Caboose frowned, holding the piece of paper still. Lopez saw it clutched in Caboose's hand, raised an eyebrow.

"_I don't suppose you would give that back?_"

"I do not know what you said. ...But I am not giving this to you."

Lopez settled against the wall, crossed his arms. "Then go. I want to talk to Sheila alone."

Caboose didn't know what he said, but Lopez was obviously waiting for Sheila. Caboose did not want to be around for any more anger-inducing hugs, so he quickly turned and headed back towards the cafeteria.

Maybe Church would know what the note said.


	99. Chapter 92: Tractor

**Chapter Ninety-Two: Tractor**

"Hello. I'm Dr. Filss. You may call me Sheila. Filss sometimes confuses people, they always spell it wrong... How are you doing?"

The patient, O'Malley, just stared back. He didn't say anything.

"Quiet, hm? Okay, there should be something around here saying what's wrong with—" O'Malley stuck his tongue out midway through her sentence, showing the stitches. "—oh. Well, that's good to know. And explains the silence. Do you need anything—your hands are shaking, are you aware of that?"

O'Malley rolled his eyes before shaking his head.

"Was that an attempt at wordless sarcasm?"

A nod.

"There's no need for that. Ah, found your details." Sheila read the sheet of paper quickly, before frowning. "Oh dear. Lopez was right, the doctor here must have been... less than qualified. I'm sure that particular tablet was outlawed a decade ago. Where did he even get those? It's a wonder you didn't just fall over and die. You're being taken off these immediately."

O'Malley opened his mouth like he was about to speak, then closed it and mimed a scribbling motion.

"Ah. Wait, I need to locate a pen... Uh... give me a minute." She opened the door, stuck her head out. Lopez was standing there, arms crossed. "Is there anywhere I can find a pen, Lopez?" Lopez held out a pencil immediately. "That was fast. Thank you, I'll be out in a few more minutes."

She closed the door again, handed the pencil and the medical records out to O'Malley. "Just use the back, I'll rub it out later."

O'Malley wrote down a couple of sentences before handing it back to her.

_The shaking and headaches are worse without the medication. Harmful as those pills are._

"I see. Maybe I can find something to counter-balance that. But keeping you on these will just do more harm."

_I suppose that makes sense. But I would prefer you don't mess around with it. In any case, once you leave then they'll probably go back to the old medication to save costs._

"How can it save costs, it's an outlawed medication. It should be more expensive. And I don't plan on leaving any time soon."

_I'm sure the last doctor felt the same way. Maybe you'll be luckier. Maybe you won't die in such a painful, gruesome fashion?_

"You're not threatening me, are you? I've been told you are... the phrase whack-a-doodle was used..."

_No. This is pure speculation on my part._

"Hm. I see. Well, I'll come back to check on you later, then. You don't seem to need anything right now."

_I don't need anything you can supply, that is certain._

"I'll try and bring some proper medication next time."

Sheila closed the door and locked it behind her, before turning to face Lopez. Before she could say anything, however, Lopez spoke.

"_You shouldn't be here._"

"_It's nice to see you, too._" Sheila placed her hands on her hips, tilted her head. "_Are you not happy to see me?_"

"_It's not that. Words cannot say how happy I am to see you. But this place is too dangerous for you. You have to leave._"

"_It's a little late for that. I already left my old job, it'll take me too long to find another one. And besides, the benefits of working here outweigh the potential dangers._"

"_Yes, being stabbed to death is just a minor inconvenience compared to finding another job,_" Lopez muttered.

"_This way, I can see you all the time and make sure you have proper medical attention if you get hurt again. It's much better this way._"

"_No. No, it's not. I don't want you getting hurt just to provide better medical care._"

"_It's... it's actually the 'seeing you more' part that made me take this job._"

"_That's—_"

"_Just listen to me for a second. ...You've been gone for only a couple of months. But just that has been... been very difficult for me It's been worse for you, I'm sure. But even so... even if you're not in here for life, you're going to be in here for the next twenty or so years. I don't know if I can maintain a relationship for that long if we only see each other once every couple of weeks." _Sheila reached over and took Lopez's hand._ "I love you more than anything. But that's just not enough. So... if staying here, in danger of being attacked, is what it takes to be near you... then it's worth it._"

Lopez frowned, as their fingers intertwined. "_Nothing is worth that to me._"

"_This is my choice, Lopez. Sorry, but I'm here to stay._"

* * *

"Hey! Caboose, wait up! ...Jeez, you walk really fast."

Caboose turned around to see Andy hurrying towards him. He was holding something that was wrapped in a towel. "I cannot play the jacketfire game now, Andy. I have to talk to Church."

"It's not that. I gotta talk to you about that fuckwit Tucker."

"That's a nasty word."

"Eh, don't be a baby. Anyhow... can you slow down for a minute? You walk too fast. What do you want me to do, roll after you?"

"Okay. But I need to talk to Church, so this has to be really fast."

"Alright. I have to put some stuff in my cell, anyway." Andy's fingers drummed on the towel that was hiding what he was carrying.

"Why are you carrying a towel?"

"Ah, it's just some empty bottles. But the guards don't let me have those anymore, so keep your mouth shut about it, alright?"

"Okay. What were you saying about stupid Tucker?"

"Right. He's a douchebag."

"Yes? Was that all?"

"Nah, I just thought it was a good starting point. See, he's being kind of a two-sided dickass. He's been lying to you and Church and helping the guys that you don't like. He's a traitor. So I hear."

"Tucker... is a tractor?"

"Not a fucking tractor, a traitor. Traitor. Traaaaaaaitooooooor."

"That is silly. Church believes Tucker, and Church knows everything."

"Thought you'd say that. But listen to me for a moment, alright? Tucker's a liar. A good one. That's what conmen do, he'd be fucking shit if he couldn't do that. So... maybe Church knows most things, but he could be tricked by someone who says lies all the time."

"But Church is smart. He would not believe Tucker if he lied." Caboose tilted his head. "Who said Tucker was lying?"

"Uh. Everyone?"

"Everyone? That's a lot of people." Caboose looked thoughtful for a moment, or at least the closest to thoughtful he ever got, before smiling. "Well, they must be mistaken. Because Church would know. He is good at knowing things."

"Alright, whatever. I tried. Hey, you wanna blow up some shit with me later? I just need some more flammable liquid, it'll be awesome."

"But last time was burny and hurty."

"Eh. That happens. Can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. Or burning them."

"...I like eggs."

"Me too."

* * *

"Fuck off!"

"No!"

"Fuck off!"

"No!"

"Fuck off!"

"No!"

The arguing between Church and Tucker had long since lost any comprehensibility, and they were now stuck in a loop that had been going for the last few minutes. Tucker was standing in his cell, trying to avoid looking at Church by rearranging Junior's pictures. Church was standing just outside the cell.

"Fuck off!"

"No! And stop telling me to!" Church snapped.

"I'll stop telling you to fuck off once you've fucked off!"

"I'm not fucking off until you tell me why you're suddenly such a douchebag! Or at least explain why you don't want the fucking protection!"

"I ain't saying shit, now fuck off!"

"You're being stupid. What's the big deal?"

"I. Don't. Need. Protection. I'm not a fucking delicate flower, don't go treating me like I'm some... girly bitch-boy like Dye-Job."

"What does Dye-Job have to do with this?" As Church said that, he realised that Tucker had been quiet since... since Caboose dragged Tucker off babbling something about cooked salads. To be honest, Church hadn't been paying attention to the conversation. But... whatever Caboose had been talking about, it'd been just after he'd spent ages hanging around with Donut in the infirmary...

"Shit." Church stepped further into the cell, walked around so he could see Tucker's face properly. "Donut told you."

Tucker scowled, crossed his arms. "Yeah, okay. He fucking told me about the... stupid gay fantasies. Said a lotta bullshit about you... well... having a boner for me or something."

"Fuck. FUCK! I'm going to kill that dye-jobed fucktard!" Church snarled. "Gonna rip his head off!"

"Feel free to. But since it's... out there now." Tucker shifted nervously. "It's not actually true, is it? It's probably some of Dye-Job's stupid fantasies, right? Well? It's just bullshit, right?"

The hopeful tone in Tucker's voice just made Church shrivel up a little on the inside.

Church opened his mouth to say that of course it wasn't true, why would he get ridiculous gay feelings for Tucker, of all people?

Of course he didn't care that much.

Of course he didn't get weird chest aches around him.

Of course he wasn't in love with him.

Church wanted to say all that, so that everything would go back to normal. But the words just... caught in his throat. He wanted to lie and make everything good again. But he couldn't. Instead, only one word came out.

"Shit."

* * *

_Fuck. Dye-Job wasn't lying._

Tucker watched Church fidget and swear and, most importantly, not deny what Donut had said. _No. No, no, no. Dye-Job was supposed to be lying, this wasn't... actually supposed to..._

"So, you're... you're fucking gay, then."

Church made a rather angry, strangled noise before muttering, "I don't fucking know. Only... only person I ever did anything with was Tex."

"Well, she's practically a dude, so that probably counts," Tucker joked half-heartedly. Lame jokes about half-shark ex-girlfriends weren't going to fix this so easily, though.

I don't fucking know what's going on either, alright?" Church stared at the wall, looking anywhere but at Tucker. "I dunno, maybe I've just been in here too long or some shit."

"But... god, why me?! Okay, sure, I'm fucking awesome in the looks department. But why?"

"I told you, I don't fucking know! I didn't wake up one morning and decide, 'hey, I wanna bone that annoying con-artist.'"

"Fuck. Fucking... fuck." Tucker was just blanking on what else to say. Half of him was pissed off. Angry at Donut for blabbing. And angry at Church for... well. For the whole stupid gay situation. And the other half of him was just frozen and going 'wow, this is awkward.'

Church blinked at the wall a couple of times, then mumbled, "Well, there. It's fucking out there, and you're never gonna talk to me again. Alright. Saw that coming." Then he managed to look at Tucker. It was impossible to read Church's expression. He didn't look angry, exactly. More just... a little bit sad, but mostly contemplative."Shit. Well, if it's out there... might as well, you're gonna hate me anyway and I'm gonna regret it whether I do it or not."

"What are—"

But before Tucker could even finish, Church grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him forward, pressing their lips together.

Tucker's brain literally short-circuited. It just sizzled and stopped working, except for a vague looping 'shit, shit, shit.' It was nothing like kissing a chick. The lips weren't soft enough, and Tucker could feel Church's facial hair brushing against him. And goddammit, he smelled like a guy.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit... SHIT, NO, THIS ISN'T HAPPENING._

"Chuuuurch! I need you to help—ack! I am sorry, you are definitely busy, I will come back later!"

Tucker, distantly, heard Caboose yelp. Which snapped his brain out of paralysis.

"Get the fuck off me!" And with that, Tucker shoved Church away. He hadn't meant to do it so hard, but he'd still been panicking. And as luck would have it... Church happened to be standing in front of Tucker's footlocker. He tripped over it and hit the ground pretty hard. He scraped the side of his face on the stone floor, so when he sat up his face was just a bit bloody.

"Ow, fuck!" Church hissed, touching the long scrape on his forehead. Tucker blinked, torn between rage and confusion and a small surge of guilt.

"Fuck, I didn't... mean..."

Regardless of what Tucker meant, it didn't matter. Caboose was already staring with wide, accusing eyes. And then he said one word.

"Tractor!"


	100. Chapter 93: Pepper

**Chapter Ninety-Three: Pepper**

"So, when O'Malley does get out of the infirmary, do you reckon we should get him in a quick lethal way or a less lethal but more painful way?" Grif asked. Simmons mulled this over, as they walked towards their cells.

"I don't know. Tricky. I mean, should we even really kill him? On one hand... fucking nutjob deserves it. But if we get caught... I doubt parole will be an option."

"Eh, we'll be fine." Grif grinned and chuckled a little. "I have no wallet to leave at the crime scene this time."

"Not funny."

"Says you."

"But back to how we'd kill—"

"TUCKER!"

Both Grif and Simmons heard that before Tucker came sprinting towards them.

"Move, move, move!" With that, Tucker flashed past them. Before they could even go 'the fuck is going on?' Caboose ran past them as well, screaming something about scraping the black parts off toast.

"The fuck?" Grif muttered.

Then Church dashed past them, yelling "Caboose! Stop it, you fucking crazy—" He was gone before they could hear the rest of what he was about to say.

Grif and Simmons just stared after them for a moment. Then they returned right to the previous conversation without pondering the situation any further.

* * *

Tucker was a fast runner. Very fast. It was hard to keep him in sight, let alone actually catch him. But he would have to slow down eventually. And Caboose wasn't letting him go this time. Not after—

_He attacked Church. He attacked Church. He attacked Church! He is going to fall down so hard! I have to get rid of him, Church has obviously been tricked by his con-ness. He has to go, he has to go, he has to go!_

Tucker was still sprinting at full speed, but then he let out a short, pained gasp. His hand briefly clutched his ribs, but he kept running.

Caboose thought he heard something. Something about a 'crazy bastard.' But he ignored it. It was probably just his imagination.

"Slow down! It will be much quicker that way!" Caboose whined, feet pounding on the ground. They were past the cells and coming up to the laundry room. Tucker was running for the yard. Where the mean guards would be. That was not supposed to happen. This had nothing to do with the mean guards.

Tucker stumbled just a little bit. Again, he grabbed at his chest. His breaths were coming heavier. Raspier. Miller had hurt Tucker there. Maybe it still hurt. But he was still too fast for Caboose to catch up with him. He couldn't reach him unless he threw something at him. But he had nothing that was throwable.

Caboose looked down at his own feet, still running, before skidding to a halt. He pulled off one of his shoes (he was glad they had no shoelaces, shoelaces always confused him) and hurled it at Tucker. It missed, flying past him and landing on the ground. Caboose grabbed it before speeding up again. Tucker was slightly more ahead now, because Caboose had to stop to throw the shoe. Frustrated, as they neared the laundry room Caboose threw the shoe again.

This time, it bounced off the wall and hit Tucker's leg. Not enough to hurt him, but enough to make him stumble for longer than a second. It was all Caboose needed to catch up. He swung a fist, smashed it into Tucker's back and knocked him to the ground.

"Jerk. You should not have run. That was mean and stupid. But you are always mean and stupid." Caboose planted his foot in the small part of Tucker's back, so he could not run away again. Tucker didn't look like he could get up, anyway. He was holding his ribs again, and it sounded like it was hard for him to breathe. But better to be safe than sorry. That was what Mama always used to say.

_Mama would not like this,_ a small voice in the back of his head said. Caboose frowned, but otherwise ignored the thought. The rules were different if he was hurting a bad person. And Tucker was a very bad man, he was a lying tractor. Caboose pushed Tucker onto his back with his foot.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Tucker wheezed.

"Getting rid of you. You are allowed to be mean and stupid and a liar... but you attacked Church. That means you have to be squished." As he said 'squished,' Caboose raised his foot, the one that still had a shoe on it, and stomped on Tucker's chest. "Squished. Very. Painfully." Every word he said, he pressed his foot down. And every time he did, Tucker made noises. Very raspy, painful noises. It made Caboose's stomach feel funny, just like when he hurt Miller. Felt kinda warm.

Before he could do anything else, however, someone grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him around and punched him right in the face.

"Caboose, what the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Church screamed at him. Caboose blinked a couple of times. It had hurt. Church had hurt him.

"You hit me!" Caboose yelped.

* * *

"Of course I fucking hit you!" Church snarled.

"You... why would you do that?!" Caboose was actually pulling puppy-dog eyes. How could be pull puppy-dog eyes in the middle of... of this?

"Don't you even fucking try that, it's not working! What did I tell you? Protect Tucker, you fuckwit! That's the opposite of protecting!"

"Don't... fucking... need it..." Tucker rasped from the ground.

"Shut the fuck up, Tucker."

Caboose pouted. "He has brainwashed you."

"What the fuck?"

"He is a bad man! And he has brainwashed you, and he hurt you! And now he's making you hurt me! He is... a poopface!"

"You're an idiot! I hit you because you're being fucking crazy! And that shove back there was... well, that was kinda my fault." Of all the times I could have chosen to jump Tucker... it just had to be then, didn't it?

"Of course you would say that. You are brainwashed."

"Fucking—"

"You should go see Sheila. I am sure she can fix brainwashing. Sheila can fix everything." Caboose smiled at him. But the smile was... patronizing. Caboose was being patronizing. What the hell was going on?

Behind Caboose, Tucker was climbing slowly to his feet. The run and the rib-stomping had made his breathing fuck up again, it was ragged and kept halting, and it sounded really painful.

There was a brief notion in his head that Church could keep Caboose distracted long enough for Tucker to escape, but before he could even act on that thought, Caboose turned back to Tucker and grabbed his wrist.

"Do not run," he said quietly. "You will just make it worse."

"Yeah? Well..." Tucker went quiet for a moment, before saying, "I fucked two of your sisters! So there! I win!"

"What?"

"You're making it worse, you dumbass!" Church yelled. "What does that even have to do with anything?"

"Oh, so I'm the one in the wrong here? He's the one who—ow, fuck!" Caboose had grasped Tucker's head and smashed it into the wall.

"Caboose! Stop it right now!" Church shouted, his voice breaking just a little from panic. Caboose had never ignored his orders like this. Ever. And if it came to stopping Caboose with force... Church was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to.

"Only if he stops brainwashing you!"

"He's not fucking brain—" Tucker's head hit the wall again. He looked dizzy, almost like he was about to pass out. "Okay, fine, I'm not brainwashed anymore! I've seen the motherfucking light! Now let go of him already!"

Caboose tilted his head, stared at Church for a moment. Then he said, "I do not believe you. I think Tucker brainwashed you into saying that."

"How the fuck could he brainwash me?!"

"He tricked you. He hurt you. I saw him. No-one hurts you, Church." Tucker's head hit the wall again, and this time Tucker stopped trying to thrash his way out of Caboose's grip. Church wasn't even sure he was conscious anymore. "If I have to not listen to you to keep you safe... then that is what I will do."

"No. No. No no no, don't you dare!" Church grabbed Caboose around the neck, tried to pull him back. "Don't you fucking dare!" Church knew what Caboose would do. He'd seen what happened to Phil. That was what Caboose did to people who hurt him. And he already had a good hold on Tucker's head. Just some more pressure and...

"Get off, Church! You are not thinking properly!" Caboose yelled. "He just makes bad things happen, he has to go!"

"No!"

Church couldn't pull him off. He couldn't stop him.

_Shit. No. No. No, this can't—_

"Jesus, what the fuck is going on?"

South had wandered out of the laundry room (who knew what she was doing in there.) For a split second, she took in the sight. Church trying to choke Caboose from behind, and Caboose trying to crush the head of a possibly unconscious Tucker. After that split second, she pulled out the pepper spray. Church only just managed to let go and back away before South sprayed it into Caboose's face.

"Ow ow ow ow ow! I cannot see!" Caboose let go of Tucker to rub his eyes. Which just made it worse. "Owwwww! Where'd he go?" He started feeling around for Tucker, ended up facing the opposite wall. "You poopface! I will find you!"

"Fucking hell." South looked a little pale as she watched Caboose flail around in a murderous rage. "Crazy bastard. He was doing what I think he was doing, right?"

"He was about to start squishing heads like grapes, if that's what you mean."

South shook her head. "What a nutcase. Look, I can't restrain him by myself. He's too gigantic, but I can... contain him or something. Find Tex. Or get North to help me. One or the other."

"Fuck off, I'm not leaving Tucker here with... with..."

"Well, fine, if it's that important to you... just drag him up to the infirmary, then," South grumbled.

Church nodded before kneeling beside Tucker and prodding him warily. "Tucker? You okay?" _Please say you're okay. Please._

"Nrghhhhh..." Tucker groaned. He opened his eyes slowly. "Why's there three of you? One was annoying enough."

_Oh, thank god._

"Come on, we're going to the infirmary." Church tried helping him up, but Tucker stuck out a hand to stop him.

"Can fucking... manage it on my own."

"Don't be stupid."

"Not being stupid. Being... being..." Tucker got to his feet, took a few steps forwards and immediately walked into the wall. "Ow." Church rolled his eyes before slinging one of Tucker's arms over his shoulders.

"Don't be such a pride-filled dumbass. Alright? This doesn't count as 'gay.'"

As they started to move towards the infirmary, Church glanced back at Caboose, who was still feeling around, trying to find them. North looked freaked out, but was nonetheless still standing there, holding the can of mace at the ready, just in case.

Church wanted to scream at Caboose so badly. Hell, he was so pissed off and disturbed that he wanted to strangle the psychotic dumbass. But that could wait. He had to make sure Tucker was okay, first.

In any case... they'd clearly just lost their protection.


	101. Chapter 94: Break Up

**Chapter Ninety-Four: Break Up**

Donut had been engaging in his habit of staring at the ceiling and thinking about all the much nicer colours it could be when the door swung open. He'd expected it to be Sheila. But instead, Church stomped in, dragging Tucker along with him. Tucker looked very dizzy and he was breathing weirdly, and Church looked even more pissed off than usual.

"Holy shit, what happened?"

"Shut the fuck up! Where's the doctor? It better not be Wash!" Church snapped, guiding Tucker to the nearest bunk.

"She said she'd be back, she was just checking O'Mal—other patients. What happened? Did Miller punch him again? He's doing the funny breathing thing..."

"Well, no shit! Really? He's breathing funny? I couldn't fucking tell! Thanks for the fucking insight, you fucking fruity dye-jobed squealer!"

Donut raised an eyebrow. "You don't have to be so... spazzy. And when did I squeal?"

Don't fucking play dumb, this is your fault to begin with!"

"What? How? I was up here, I didn't do anything."

"Guys, stop shouting at each other," Tucker mumbled. "Giving me a headache. I mean a worse one. But yeah, Dye-Job, it's your fault. If you hadn't blabbed about... about the fucking gay fantasies."

"The ga—oh! That." Donut tilted his head, confused. "Wait. I blabbed about how Church wanted to bone you—"

"I never said I wanted to bone him!"

"—and that led to you being brought up here. I think there's a middle step I'm missing there. Did Church get all defensive and shove you? Or was there an epic, romantic confession and then you just fainted and hit your head from the sheer romantitude of it? Heroines in romance novels faint a lot, but they never hit their heads—"

"What the fuck?" Church yelled. "There was no fucking confessions."

"Actually, I think you shoving your tongue down my throat counts as a 'confession,'" Tucker muttered.

Donut made a weird, strangled squeal. It sounded like "Eeeeeeeeeeefinally."

"There was no goddamn tongue-shoving!" Church snapped.

"There might as well have been! And it was disgusting!" Tucker yelled back. Or at least, he attempted to yell. But he broke out into a coughing fit during it. "And if you hadn't done that, Caboose wouldn't have fucking—"

"Wait, what? Caboose did what now? Guys, I'm confused!"

"What a fucking shocker. And you—" Church turned back to Donut. "Thanks to you, now everything's gonna go to shit and to top it off, we have no fucking protection." He started pacing in circles. "I can probably blackmail someone else into supplying some protection... if blackmail doesn't work, I'll bribe them with instant coffee or some shit."

"Don't need it, fuck off," Tucker said.

"Shut up, Tucker. Take the fucking protection."

"No. Don't treat me like I'm some... fucking precious little flower. I'm not made out of glass, douchebag."

"You're made out of something wussy. Like plasticine. How many times have you gotten hurt now? You just... you're like a magnet for painful shit. Like Dye-Job. Except I actually give a fuck about what happens to you."

"I should be offended, but awwwww."

"Fuck off, Dye-Job!"

"I can't! My legs don't work. Sort of. Getting there."

"No one cares."

"Yeah, he's got an excuse to stick around and be annoying. You don't have any excuse, Church, so fuck off," Tucker snapped. He tried to sit up properly, but then groaned and covered his mouth. "Oh god, shit is spinning... Where's the bucket?" Church rolled his eyes before locating the empty bucket and unceremoniously throwing it on Tucker's bunk.

"Look. I get it. You hate me. Big fucking deal, it's not like I expected anything else. Just keep the protection, and I'll fuck off and leave you alone."

Tucker scowled. "Fine, whatever. Now fuck off."

"Fine. I... need to do some shit, anyhow." Church turned away from Tucker, headed towards the door. He was obviously trying to stay cool and maintain his 'I-don't-give-a-fuck' attitude. But Donut saw just a brief flash of the expression he was hiding from Tucker. He looked... really sad. Church was never sad without any anger mixed in. Donut didn't have time to comment on it before Church was gone.

Tucker shifted a bit more, feeling around on the cot. "'S too fucking bright. All... spinning and—ergh!" He grabbed the bucket. Donut averted his gaze, went back to staring at the ceiling, but he could still hear Tucker throwing up. After a while of this, Tucker wiped his mouth, placed the bucket next to the cot.

"Fucking ruined it, Dye-Job," he muttered bitterly. "Could have just kept your mouth shut, but noooo. Now shit's all weird between me and that douchebag, and on top of that I probably haven't got long to live, with Caboose after me and all that."

"I still don't get what you're talking about."

* * *

"Tex. I need a favour," Church muttered, once he'd found her leaning against one of the walls in the yard, keeping a look out.

"A please would be nice," Tex said, grinning slightly.

"Yeah, not happening. First off... I kinda lost the protection I had..."

"I heard. South made me take Caboose down to solitary. She was pretty freaked out, kept repeating the words 'fucking crazy." Tex started rummaging through her pocket. "By the way... Caboose told me to give you this note, he couldn't read it. He also said he hopes you aren't brainwashed anymore." She pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Can't read the Spanish parts... but whoever wrote the other half has something against that gay guy you sometimes talk to."

Church opened the note. He saw the Spanish right away. Caboose must have picked it up when he was tracking Lopez. He knew no Spanish outside of 'si' and 'sayonara.' Or was that French? Anyhow, the Spanish parts were jibberish to him. The English parts, however... As well as Donut's name, they used the phrase 'pastry' a lot. And the whole note seemed to be haggling over a deal.

"O'Malley wrote this. Guess he wants revenge for Dye-Job biting a chunk of his tongue off."

"Might want to keep an eye out."

"Nah. Fuck Dye-Job. Don't care if he gets killed." Church crumpled up the note, shoved it in his pocket. "Anyway, back to what I was saying. Can you keep a watch on Tucker if he leaves the infirmary?"

"Why me? You got that whole blackmail thing going on."

"Yeah, but would you trust a jerkass criminal you were blackmailing? I mean, come on. ...I'm a jerkass criminal that you're blackmailing, and you don't trust me."

"Damn right I don't. Fair enough then." Tex returned to crossing her arms and staring out over the yard, watching Wyoming and Andy having some sort of argument, probably about the price of lighters or something. "I'll keep watch over your bitch when I can."

"...Bitch? No, Tucker's—"

"Again, Caboose told me. Well, he didn't use the phrase 'bitch.' But how he said it, either you and Tucker are jumping each other, or Tucker's a cannibal. I don't know. In any case, it's been obvious for years."

"You're full of bullshit."

"Oh?" Tex glanced sideways at him. "You remember that time you tried to hang yourself?"

"No, I don't. I don't at all recall that. Especially not the months of waiting for my leg to heal," Church said sarcastically.

"And I tried to get you to promise you wouldn't try again. You never agreed with me. You didn't specifically say you were gonna try and off yourself again... but I could tell you were thinking about it. You had the look, you know?"

"Yeah, well... it was a shit few years," Church muttered, as Wyoming strolled past, humming 'God Save The Queen,' of all things. "I got over it, what's your point?"

"That's my point. You got over it. And I don't think it's a coincidence that you getting over it happened around the same time that you met Tucker. Whether it was a buddy thing or a bitch thing... either way, there's always been something there. I'm not blind, Church." Tex grinned a little wider. "Suppose you've been acting in wussy denial about it, though. Did the same thing when we were dating."

"Shut up. Anyhow, I need another favour."

"You just got a favour."

"This one's easier. I need to go to solitary."

"Are you on drugs?"

"No. I need you to throw me in the same solitary cell as Caboose. Just for a couple of hours. Need to... talk to him." I'm gonna strangle him.

"Are you going to strangle him?"

"No. Look, I'm not gonna kill him or anything. I just gotta make sure he doesn't attack fucking Tucker again. I doubt South is gonna be hiding in a closet nearby next time."

Tex considered this. "No violence? Not that I care, except that if they find out I let you down there and then you beat the crap out of someone, then I'm the one who's gonna be in deep shit."

"Fine."

"He's not gonna try and strangle you or anything, is he?"

"Caboose? Fuck no! He wouldn't. ...I, uh, don't think he would."

* * *

O'Malley sat with his back to the door of the temporary infirmary, as Wyoming slid his piece of paper back to him.

"So, you're seriously thinking of escape, my old friend? Could be interesting."

_Yes. If Doc doesn't return, I'll have to find him and teach him a lesson._

"I see. Well, Lady Luck seems to have crawled into your infirmary cot, because your timing couldn't be better." Wyoming grinned widely. "Inspection. A bit over a week away. Security will be high in many areas... but in other places, it'll be almost non-existent. And the guards will be thrown off by the change in schedule. If you want to escape, that would be the best time. I can tell you where the weak links of the chain are. Perhaps I'll take the opportunity to leave this place, as well."

_Is a week enough time to plan an evil scheme?_

"Would it hurt to try? We're both on life sentences, after all. It's not gambling if you have nothing else to lose, old chap."

_Point taken. Very well. What strategies do you suggest?_

As they started sketching out the layout of an escape plan, O'Malley grinned. He felt alive for the first time in weeks.

_I'm coming for you, Doc. You will not escape this time._


	102. Chapter 95: Realization

**Chapter Ninety-Five: Realization**

Sheila didn't look very happy as she examined Tucker. She was tight-lipped and serious.

"How could he do this?" she muttered under his breath. "He knows how bad head injuries can get, how could he do this?"

Donut was curled up on his cot, watching. Lopez was sitting in the corner, looking bored and annoyed. Like he was thinking 'how could Tucker be so inconsiderate as to acquire a severe head injury when I want to spend time with Sheila?'

"Hm. None of your ribs seem to be broken. It's probably just the scarring from your previous injuries making you breathe so heavily. How badly does it hurt?"

"Feels like shit."

"On a scale of one to ten, how shit would you say? Never mind, we'll come back to those questions. Aside from whatever is happening with your ribs, you have also suffered a concussion. Not too severe, but I'll need to keep you here overnight at the least."

"Oh, come on," Tucker groaned. "Can I stay in a different room? I don't wanna stay in the same room as Dye-Job, he's gonna be talking about feelings and interior decorating and all that shit."

"The only other room we have set aside for medical purposes has O'Malley in it. We could put you in there, but I've been warned against leaving anyone in there. Would you prefer potential injuries—"

"And other grabbier things," Donut muttered.

"To being in the same room as Donut?" There was a pause. "Well—"

"I'm thinking!"

"I'm worse than O'Malley? Okay, now I actually am offended."

"Fine, I'll stay, jeez. But if my ears shrivel up during the night from Dye-Job's bullshit, I'm gonna be pissed."

* * *

"Guess who's awesome? That's right. I'm fucking awesome. Fuck yeah." Andy grinned and plonked down next to Miller, holding his tray of mystery meat.

"Did I say you could sit down there? That's Jenkin's seat, he'll get pissy if you—"

"Hey, get out of my seat."

"Fuck you, I called dibs," Andy protested.

"No, you didn't," Miller pointed out.

"Well. Dibs. Now I did. In your face, Jenny."

"Jenkins. Not Jenny," Jenkins muttered, moving and sitting down, mumbling about his seat being taken.

"So, what's so awesome about you? You talk to Caboose?"

"Hell yeah. And at first it went shit. I said, 'hey, Tucker's a backstabbing douchebag.' And Caboose said 'no, he's not.' And then we parted ways."

"That's awesome? What qualifies as fucking crap?"

"I'm not finished." Andy took a long sip of apple juice, presumably for dramatic effect, before continuing. "So, that did go crap. But then I wandered back to my cell to put away the shit you gave me and—phwoosh!"

"Phwoosh?"

"Tucker goes running by, and Caboose is chasing him and calling him a tractor." At the confused expression on Miller's face, Andy added, "Tractor. Traitor."

"Did he kill him?" Miller asked. On one hand, he was really hoping Tucker had been crushed into a red smudge. On the other hand... he would be kind of depressed at not getting revenge on Tucker himself.

"No."

Miller yelped, because Andy wasn't the one who said that. He turned around. Wyoming was standing behind him, only inches away.

"Jesus, how long have you been—why didn't anyone say he was standing behind me?"

"It was funnier this way," Andy said.

"He made a 'stay quiet' motion at me. And you let my seat be taken," Jenkins added, through a mouthful of mystery stew.

"Some loyalty," Miller muttered. "He's not dead, then?"

"No. I overheard a conversation between Church and Tex. Your man hasn't been killed, although I summarised that he'd been injured badly. And the idiot has been placed in solitary. You now have a free reign at Tucker."

"Great." Miller made to get up, but Wyoming placed a hand on top of his head to stop him from rising.

"We're in quite a rush, aren't we? I should have been more specific. You'll have a free reign at him once he leaves the infirmary."

"Right."

"But, if I might be so bold as to suggest a time to exact your revenge..." Wyoming's fingers were tapping Miller's head. It was annoying, but Miller knew better than to tell Wyoming off for it. He was the best and one of the only channels for getting stuff from outside the prison. To annoy him was to cut that off. "I would suggest during the upcoming inspection."

"When security is tighter than ever? Are you outta your goddamn mind?"

"I don't believe I am, though the mad are often the last to realise that their sanity is dwindling." Wyoming tapped his fingers twice against Miller's head. "There's going to be... a disturbance that day. It'll be the perfect moment. What do you say, chap?"

"I dunno. I'll think about it. Let me eat in peace, goddammit."

"Very well. If you decide to cooperate, we will discuss it further. Andy, follow me. Let us walk."

"Huh? Okay." Andy picked up his tray of food and followed Wyoming, still eating. "What's up, old man?"

"You like explosions, don't you?"

"Fuck yeah."

"If I were to supply you with the proper materials... what is the biggest explosion you could make? And could you be persuaded to direct it somewhere that would benefit me?"

* * *

"I'll leave you in there two hours. No more than that," Tex muttered, pushing Church past the solitary cells, making it look as though Church was being dragged there, as opposed to volunteering.

"Yeah, I got it. I'd probably be fine with just the one hour, but I'll go with two. Just to make sure."

"Okay." Tex stopped in front of Caboose's solitary cell, stuck the key in the lock. "Church?"

"Yeah?"

"Be ca—" Tex paused, then changed tack. "Don't do anything retarded."

"No problem."

Tex nodded before pushing the door open and gesturing for Church to go in. Church stepped in, the door slammed behind him.

Caboose was sitting on the floor, legs pulled up to his chest. He blinked at Church a few times. His eyes were still red and irritated from the pepper spray. A few more blinks before he spoke.

"Church? Is that you?"

"The fuck do you think?"

"Are you still brainwashed?"

"I was never brainwashed, you fucking idiot!"

"That is a yes." Caboose frowned, hugging his legs a bit tighter. "You are probably going to stay brainwashed until Tucker falls down."

Church didn't sit, he just crossed his arms and glared down at Caboose. "What the fuck did you think you were doing back there?"

"Making Tucker fall down."

"Yeah, I saw. But why the fuck would you do that?"

"Because he hurt you. And brainwashed you. And is a nasty tractor."

"Where did you even get the word 'tractor' from?"

"Andy." Caboose nodded. "He said that Tucker was being a backstabbing tractor. And I said that was silly, but then I saw Tucker hurt you. Two and two make eleven, Church."

"What. Do you ever listen to what you say?!"

"Yes. I have ears."

"Then use them for once. I said no attacking Tucker. I said that I don't give a shit about you protecting me, as long as you're making sure no-one's beating him up. Seriously, what the fuck were you playing at?!"

"I already told you. Tucker had to be smooshed. You are going around in circles."

"No, you are!" Church's voice was cracking slightly. "This always happens! You always ramble on about 'keeping your promises' and shit, but you always end up breaking them! I told you not to kill people, and then you crushed Phil's head. I told you to protect Tucker, you tried to kill him."

"That was different."

"What's next, huh? You gonna attack me next?"

"Of course not, Church. You are my best friend."

"Oh, and that's supposed to assure me, is it?" Church stopped, hesitated for a moment. Then he said, "You saying I'm your friend is supposed to make me feel all protected and shit? You started claiming Donut was your second-best friend right after you met him, didn't stop you from breaking his leg."

"That... that was..."

"What, did you tell your mother that she was the best parent ever just before shoving her down the stairs?!"

Until that point, Caboose had just looked mildly bemused about Church's shouting. But as soon as Church brought up his mother... before Church could continue ranting, Caboose grabbed his shoulders, shoved him against the wall.

"Do. Not. Talk. About. Mama," Caboose growled. "I did not do anything. She fell! You are brainwashed! Church would never say that!"

Church was a bit less certain that Caboose wasn't going to hurt him than he was a couple of minutes ago. Although, if it'd been anyone else that had brought up Caboose's mother in that way... well, then they'd probably be dead already.

_Now would be a good time to stop talking._

"You know what? I'm fucking saying it."

_Why don't you listen to me anymore?_

Church ignored the bitching of the rational part of his brain and kept talking.

"Sure. She fell, did she? Just like every other person you murdered. Wake the fuck up already!"

"Shut up! I did not do anything!" Caboose's grip was getting tighter, it was making Church's shoulders hurt. Caboose lowered his voice. "You... you believed me. I said I did not do anything, and you believed me."

"No, I pretended to believe you so you wouldn't turn me into a red smudge," Church said harshly. "But fuck it, I'm sick of humoring you. I can't pretend to believe you when you're trying to kill the only guy in this dump that I care about—and yes, that includes you. So here's a newsflash. You're mental. You're one of the most psychotic bastards I've ever met."

"Brainwashed!"

"I'm not brainwashed! You're the one who's mentally fucked!"

"Brainwashed! Brainwashed!"

"You're the one always attacking people! And everyone knows that, they're just too terrified of you going all psycho on them that they never mention it! Do you really think that all those people just 'fell over' around you on accident?"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

"Someone's gotta say it! And I'm the only person who can say it without getting killed in the process! Hell, that might not even be true, if you can kill your mother than why the fuck wouldn't you kill me?"

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Caboose screamed. He let go of Church's shoulders, only for the hands to clasp around Church's throat. "Stop lying! Stop lying!"

_Oh shit. He's really trying to kill me. Abort! Abort!_

"I'm not lying," Church said, forcing the words out despite the pressure on his throat.

_Are you trying to die, goddammit?! Fuck it, I'm gonna go live in a cave._

"Liar. Liar. You're brainwashed and lying and... and being mean..." Caboose muttered. His voice kept cracking. Screws were definitely loose. Looser than usual.

"Look... look at what you're doing." Church reached up, gripped Caboose's wrist and tried to pull the hand away. Didn't work. "Look at what you're about to do."

There was a few seconds when Caboose stared at him. Then his eyes slowly traveled down, to the hands clasped around Church's throat. Then suddenly he let go. Church immediately moved to the other side of the cell, massaging his throat. Caboose's expression had changed from pissed to horrified.

"Oh my god," he said quietly, looking down at his hands. "I just... I was not thinking... oh god, I am sorry..."

"Yeah? You weren't thinking? That just makes the attempted murder alright then, doesn't it?" Church snarled. "See? You're fucking psychotic, you team-killing fucktard!"

"I... I'm sorry..."

"I bet you are. You starting to figure out who is the 'tractor' here? Because it's not Tucker."

Caboose kept staring down at his hands. And Church knew that he'd finally gotten through Caboose's thick skull. Because Caboose looked completely shattered. Church had seen Caboose look that defeated once before. Seven years ago. But back then, it had been because of O'Malley.

Without a word, Caboose sat down again, curled up in the same position he'd been in before.

Church sat down on the other cot, waiting for when Tex would come and let him out. The next couple of hours passed in complete silence. The only movement was Caboose opening and closing his hands, that same look on his face.

Church had to wonder if the truth had been too much for him. Maybe he was broken for good, this time.


	103. Flashback: Chapter Seven

**Flashback – Part Seven**

"Okay, what do you want?"

"Just get me a beer. ...Well, two beers. I'll figure out the rest as we go along."

Since Church had lost the bet of 'who would be desperate enough to phone the other' by calling Tex, he was stuck paying for all of her drinks. And Tex was like a bottomless pit where that was concerned.

"Fine, whatever."

Once they'd got hold of drinks and found somewhere to sit, there was a long time during which the only sound was them drinking. Then Tex said, "You look like shit. Not that you exactly looked pretty to start with, but..."

"Huh? Oh... right. Yeah, just a... a rough couple of days," Church muttered.

"That why you called so soon? The way you talked, I figured you would have waited at least a week before calling. But you cracked in less than twelve hours."

"Shit changes, doesn't it?"

Church had called Tex soon after he and Eddie reached the new hideout. Tiny little place, one that Delta had gotten a hold of because of the basement. A basement that muffled sound incredibly well, useful for obvious reasons.

He'd called Tex from outside the house while someone else (Church hadn't been really paying attention as to who) told Eddie what had happened. He hadn't wanted to see Eddie's face when he found out about Sigma.

For the last two days, everything had been quiet. No-one had been doing anything, with the exception of O'Malley and Gary. They'd been hard at work 'interrogating' the man they were keeping in the basement. Another reason that Church really wanted to be out of the safehouse at the moment. The basement muffled sound well, but not enough to block out all the noises coming from that pit.

"Guess so. Can't say I've had a... good few days, either," Tex said, draining half her glass afterwards. She looked more tired than last time Church had seen her, too.

"Er, you okay?"

"Fine. ...Family stuff. Stay the fuck out of it," Tex muttered with sudden hostility. Church raised his hands.

"Whoa. Okay, fine. Just wondering if... whatever."

There was silence for a little bit, until Tex said, "So, what's up with you and the kid?"

"Huh?"

"You don't exactly look like a single parent."

"A... oh. No, no, no. Otto's my little brother," Church said, using Eddie's assumed name (though Eddie rarely had any reason to use it.)

"Hm. I see even fewer of those."

_Fuck, should have gone with 'single parent.' Did a better job parenting than Dad did, anyhow._

"How'd you end up taking care of him? How'd you get custody of the kid?"

"Why the interrogation?" Church asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is this normally the sort of shit you usually chat up people with? Because it ain't that hot." Tex flipped him off.

"Shut up. You're being kind of evasive there."

"Well, yeah. Because it's a painful subject. Dad was an abusive douchebag." _Technically true. _

"Okay, okay. These questions just jump to mind quickest." Tex finished her first beer, pushed the glass away before picking up her second. "It's not like I think you're a kidnapper or anything. I ask these sort of questions at work quite a bit, that's all."

"Really? What do you do that requires—"

"Policewoman."

Church choked on his beer.

A policewoman. Of course. Of course! That was just the pinnacle of his luck. The one girl that he's ever sort of liked, and she's a policewoman.

_God. Why do you hate me? Stop fucking my shit up!_

"What? You a criminal or something?" _Great. She noticed the choking._

"Juvenile delinquent," Church said quickly. Also technically true. "Got picked up by the police a couple of times when I was younger. Mostly for shit like shoplifting and graffiti. Guess I never outgrew the whole 'not trusting the fuzz' thing." Tex seemed alright with this answer. _Fuck yeah, I can bluff my way outta this shit._ "I mean, most of them weren't as hot as you." _Great. I ruined it._

"Smooth," Tex muttered.

* * *

"I'm an idiot," was the first thing Church said once he entered the safehouse and found Eddie, who was just sitting on the beat up couch with Theta, who was staring intently at a Where's Waldo book. The furniture in this safehouse was all second-hand, and the floor was littered with blankets because the whole smuggling group had been sleeping in the house.

"Yeah. I thought you were supposed to cut all connections. Making us non-trackable and shit like that."

"It's worse." Church flopped onto the couch. "She's a policewoman."

"You got the most fucked luck ever. Shit." At the sound of Eddie's swearing, Theta carefully blocked his ears. "Sorry, Theta. Anyway, Delta would so tell you off for hanging around with her if..." His voice faltered.

"Where is he?"

"Kitchen," Theta murmured. He tilted his book to the side before nudging Eddie. "I can't find Waldo."

"Yeah? Let me see."

"And everyone else?" Church asked.

"Omega's in the bathroom, washing his hands—"

"Hm. Thought it was unusually quiet. They done torturing?"

"They're taking a break. Gary is following O'Malley around, they keep discussing... um... techniques. No clue where Meta is."

"Alright."

"So... what are you gonna do about Tex?"

"Fuck. I don't know. Guess I shouldn't call her again. That'd be stupid, wouldn't it?"

"Probably. Too bad. I kinda liked her."

"Yeah. Me too. I guess."

Church scowled at the ceiling for a few minutes, listening to Eddie and Theta look at the Where's Waldo book, before climbing to his feet. Maybe he should talk to Delta. Figure out what was happening next. Delta had barely spoken since they came to the safehouse, so Church had no idea what was going on in his head at the moment.

When he walked into the kitchen, Delta was sitting at the table, back facing Church.

"Uh, Delta?"

No answer.

"You know, we can't really hide here forever. What are we gonna do about... I dunno. About anything."

No answer.

"Delta?" Church moved around the table, and it was only then that he saw what Delta doing.

Delta was finger-painting.

A couple of small cans of paint were open on the table next to him, and a plain sheet of paper was lying in front of him. His hands were coated in paint, fingers slowly dragging across the paper, leaving red and green streaks behind them. The sheet was just a mess of colour. It kind of looked like someone had thrown up on it, then done red and green streaks over it.

Delta continued to ignore him in favour of smearing paint. Something that he had always deemed frivolous.

Church didn't say anything. He just turned around and left the kitchen. It didn't feel right to stay. It felt like he was intruding on something private.

* * *

When she was done with Leonard, Tex didn't go home. Instead, she made her way back to the hospital. Truth be told, the last couple of days had been more than rough. It had been a massive relief to talk to someone who wasn't involved in it at all, even if he was a moron.

Tex entered the hospital and made her way to the ward where Carolina was. Two days ago, she'd been found on the streets and bleeding intensely from a series of bullet wounds. She'd been unconscious. She still was, and the outcome was looking bleaker every moment that she didn't wake up.

She got to the ward and slipped through the curtains that had been pulled up around Carolina. She found York there, fast asleep and clinging to Carolina's hand. The only difference from last time she'd been here was that York had been awake.

She nudged York in the shoulder gently. "York?"

York mumbled in his sleep a bit.

"York, come on. Go home. You need some sleep."

"No." With that blunt refusal, he continued sleeping. Tex shook her head. The attempt had only been cursory. She knew he wasn't going to leave, at least not until the hospital staff dragged him out by force. It had been two straight days, but he was dedicated.

Tex sat down on the other side of Carolina's bed, gazing down at her sister. The story given right now was that Carolina had been heading to lunch during work hours and a random maniac, a mugger that panicked, maybe, had gunned her down.

Tex knew better. She knew her father's line of work. The sort of work that a policewoman wasn't supposed to stand for, but she didn't even know where her father hid nowadays, and she'd always been wary of going after her sister. She would have had to explain at work how she knew what Carolina's real job was, and she'd changed her last name specifically to avoid questions if either her father or sister was ever caught.

Maybe she should have. Maybe if she had, Carolina wouldn't be in this situation. Tex was a fuck-up of an older sister. It would have been better for Carolina to be in jail than for her to be here. And there wasn't anyone she could tell about this. York had no idea what Carolina did for a living.

Tex pinched the bridge between her nose, covering up the fact that, for perhaps the first time in her life, she really wanted to cry. But she forced the feeling back, and settled in for a long night of hoping, fruitlessly, that Carolina would wake up.

* * *

Three days after the torture had begun, O'Malley wandered up from the basement. His hands were bloody, and he was whistling. He entered the bathroom, and Church heard his tune change to that weird little jingle he always hummed or whistled whenever he washed his hands. Then O'Malley left again.

"He says he's ready to talk," O'Malley said cheerfully.

Delta immediately got up from the kitchen table and headed to the basement. Church made to follow him when he saw Eddie climbing to his feet as well.

"No."

"But, Leo! Come on, I can... I can help with all the smuggling stuff you guys do, I can! I'm sick of being completely useless!"

"Trust me, you don't want any part of this. Stay here."

Eddie scowled but sat down again. Theta made to get up, before remembering that his leg was still injured from where Carolina had shot him and lowering himself back into the chair. Instead, he reached over and tugged Eddie's sleeve, mentioning something about fireworks. If Eddie and Theta did start playing with fireworks, that'd probably keep Eddie away from sneaking into the basement.

Church followed Delta to the basement. It was pitch black. O'Malley chuckled.

"I've blindfolded him. He won't be able to see anything even with the lights on. Shall I? I'm quite pleased with our handiwork." He flicked on the light.

For all that O'Malley had built it up, the prisoner didn't look too bad. Not that he looked good. His face was a swollen mass of purple and yellow. His neck was also bruised and swollen where a bicycle lock was keeping him chained to one of the basement pipes, as well as along his tied wrists. He was slumped over as much as the bindings would allow, it was hard to even tell if he was conscious. Still, it looked no different from any other severe beating. Delta stepped forward, bent down so he was on the same eye level. Not that it mattered with the blindfold.

"State your name," Delta said.

The prisoner looked up. He breathed in hard through his nose (it was easy to hear, sounded like he was breathing through sludge) and spat a mouthful of blood right in Delta's face.

Delta didn't react right away, and when he did he simply wiped his face off. Then he said, "Omega. You said he was ready."

"That's what he said. I think. It's hard to understand him through all the blood."

"Fuck off," the man said. His words were garbled through the blood that was rapidly filling his mouth again. And Church felt a sudden wave of nausea, because now he saw what O'Malley had done to his mouth. About half his teeth were missing. But it was clearly not a result of the beatings. The gums were torn and bloody. For the first time since the lights went on, Church looked to the side, where a small table sat. There was a knife and a pair of pliers lying on it. And next to that, several red-soaked teeth.

Church felt bile rise in his throat, but he managed, just barely, to force it back down. The others didn't seem affected. O'Malley was grinning and giggling over his handiwork. Gary, leaning against the wall, wore a smug, pleased expression. Meta, who was pacing the room, just looked bored. And Delta looked impassive, as always.

"You will suffer much more if you do not speak," Delta said coldly. "I am to understand that a certain level of courtesy is owed to house guests, so I will ask one more time before I have Omega rip out your toenails. State your name."

Silence. Delta nodded to O'Malley, who grinned widely and picked up the pliers.

At just the tiny 'clink' sound of him picking them up, the prisoner blurted out, "Wash."

"Was that your name? Or are you requesting a shower? Your full name, please."

"Da... David Washington."

O'Malley scowled and put the pliers down again.

"What is your status among the Director's men?"

"Low. I... I don't know anything. Just the... just bare mi... mih..." Wash seemed to be struggling to speak, whether from fear or the lack of teeth and abundance of pain. "Mi-minimum. They only told me what I-I needed to know." Wash coughed, before tilting his head to the side and spitting again, this time on the ground. More blood. "Don't know... don't know what you want, but... you got the wrong guy—"

Meta snarled, grabbed the bike lock and pulled it back roughly so that Wash was cut off, choking under the pressure.

"I will determine how much of your knowledge is relevant. Are you going to answer my questions?"

Unable to speak, Wash nodded. Meta let go of the bicycle lock, letting him breathe again. After a few moments during which Wash breathed in and out, the sluggish bubbly noises of blood clogging up his airways accompanying each breath, Delta spoke again.

"What was your specific job?"

"N-n-no specific job." The remaining teeth were chattering from fear, and sometimes little whimpers of pain slipped through. "Orders were... they were different most of the time. Watch people. Steal evidence or supplies. Kill people. D-deal with anything that was a threat to... threat to the boss."

"The boss. That would be the Director?"

"...Yes."

"List all the people you worked with."

"I... I-I can't."

"Why? Are you physically incapable of informing me?"

"If... if we give that kind of thing away, we get killed. T-those are the rules."

Face impassive, Delta leaned forward a bit, gripped Wash's shoulder. His fingers were still stained with little bits of dried paint.

"Washington, do you believe that you will be leaving here alive? Regardless of whether you keep the information a secret or not, you are going to die here. But how much information you divulge directly affects how much pain you go through before then. List all the people you worked with."

Wash's head dropped a bit, and he slumped against the pipe. "I didn't know many. People were switched around all time, the only one... the only one that I was consistently teamed up with was... was Carolina." Wash lifted his head, face pointed at Delta like he was trying to see Delta through the blindfold. "Are you the one who shot—"

Meta pulled on the bike link and cut Wash off again.

"I am the one asking the questions," Delta said quietly.

Meta let go of the link and returned to prowling around, growling softly.

"There... the last mission I was on... when you caught us... I was working with South. South Dakota. She was a..." Wash paused for a moment, then said, "She was high up, nearly on the same level as Carolina."

Meta snarled angrily. Wash immediately clammed up, trying to flinch away from the sound. Delta's eyes narrowed.

"You are lying to us. Meta says that the only one he saw working with you was clearly inexperienced. Also, she shot you in the back. Are you attempting to trick us into helping you with your personal vendettas?"

"N-no, I—"

"Clearly Omega's torture has not had the effect we desired. Maybe you will change your mind." Delta turned around, started walking back towards the stairs. "Get back to work."

"No! No, please, no more! I'm sorry, I won't lie again, I... please! Please, no!" Wash started struggling against the chains, his voice growing more hysterical. "No more! No more! Don't leave me alone with them! Please, I'll do anything, just don't leave me here! Please!"

"Alpha. Gamma. Meet me upstairs." Delta gestured for Church to follow him, and he gladly hurried after him. He glanced back as they left, and saw O'Malley picking up the pliers again, and Wash straining against the chains, begging for mercy.

Once they were back upstairs, Church said, "You're disgusting. O'Malley's disgusting. This whole thing is completely sick!"

"I am aware of that. Did you have a point?" Delta asked, as they entered the living room. Eddie was looking worried, peering over the couch and watching Church shout. Theta had been drawing pictures of fireworks on a piece of paper, but he was frowning.

"It's disgusting!"

"If that is all you have to say, then we are done talking about it. Theta." Theta looked up. "Start a search for any information on David Washington. If he cannot be reasoned with, leverage could be useful. Any knowledge of family, friends and anything similar." Theta nodded, reaching over and picking up the crutches he was using until his leg healed, before slowly making his way over to the computer. Delta raised a hand and started to ask, "Do you need—"

"I'm fine, Dee. I can get to the computer."

Delta lowered his hand, looking faintly troubled, before turning to Gamma. "Do the same, but research South Dakota instead. Just in case Washington was slightly truthful." Gary left as well.

"And what'll you be doing?" Church muttered.

"I want to talk to you about that." Delta looked towards Eddie, who was still sitting on the couch. "This is not the place for it. Walk with me."

"I never get to help with anything," Eddie muttered under his breath. Delta ignored this grumble, and left the house. Church jogged after him.

Delta didn't speak until they were a few houses away from the safehouse. Then he said, "I require your word that nothing we say here will be repeated to the others."

"Yeah. Whatever. What's the fucking secret?"

"There is strong evidence of a traitor in our midst."

"Eh?"

Delta sighed, twisting his fingers together. One of the few times Church had seen him display any nervous tics. "The ambush. They knew we were coming. They were not organized like our information indicated. Someone tampered with it. Logic suggests it was one of us."

"But... wait, that doesn't mean anything. We got that information from all sorts of places. Maybe one of the guys we got the info from—" Church started to argue, but Delta raised a hand to stop him.

"I considered that. And it was originally my intent to review the information and determine where the fault was." Delta rubbed his forehead absently before reaching into his pocket. "But when I opened the computer, the file was gone. Not just that file, either. The entire computer had been wiped. I had several protections in place to prevent such an event. This was in the drive." He removed a disc case from his pocket, showing it to Church. The only marking on the disc itself was '2.0.'

"2.0? The fuck does that mean?"

"It is an alias. I have heard of '2.0' in passing. He writes viruses and hacks into computers for information, then sells that information to interested parties. I do not know his identity, which is what I will be doing while the others find information on the Director."

"Alright. But why you telling me this? Why not the others?"

"We cannot rule out anyone being the traitor. I cannot even rule out you."

"Me?! You fucking—"

"Logically, it could fit. Perhaps you deemed that this was too dangerous a job. That you didn't want to put Epsilon in unnecessary danger and decided to hand the rest of us over, in exchange for the freedom of you and your brother. And you have been more antagonistic as of our latest course of action."

"That's because it's fucking sick!"

"Adding in your recent courtship of a policewoman... a cover for meeting with an informant?"

"What the fuck? No! How'd you even know about that?"

"Epsilon."

"Oh, that tattletale," Church mumbled.

"Calm down. I do not suspect you more than anyone else. Anyone could be the traitor, the exception being Epsilon."

"I bet it's fucking O'Malley. He's a freaking lunatic."

"Judging without evidence is unwise. Although I do admit it is a strong possibility," Delta murmured. "For the moment, I will locate this '2.0' and see if he knows the identity of the one who ordered this. In the meantime... be cautious."

* * *

That evening, Delta found Theta sitting in front of the computer, covering his eyes and shaking his head.

"Theta? Theta, is something troubling you?" Delta questioned. Despite his concern, he was finding it hard to look at Theta. Every time he saw Theta's bad leg, he felt fury at Carolina for shooting his little brother, as well as Sigma, and guilt for being unable to prevent it.

"They're going to find us," Theta whispered. "They're going to find us and they're gonna kill you."

"Why do you say that?"

"They're on the lookout. I... I called these two guys and asked them to check Wash's address. This little flat on the other side of the city. Told them to check if there were any, y'know... friends or family. Or pets, even. There was a picture of a cat in the wallet Gamma took off him, so I thought... but... I told them it'd be empty, because it's only been three days, and no-one should have been so concerned...

"But... but apparently there were guys there. Director's guys. And they... they had guns. One of the guys I sent got killed, the other one ran. Then he yelled at me. But they... I mean, they're looking for Wash, what if they... they're going to find us, Dee!"

"You are being irrational," Delta said. "We are not going to get caught."

"I... I heard Papa say that to Mama once. And they got caught. They almost caught us." Theta twisted his fingers together nervously. "We're... we keep getting caught. Papa and Mama... now Sigma..." Delta's stomach twisted uncomfortably at the mention of Sigma, but he showed no emotion. "Dee, I... I don't want to do this any more. We need to stop. We need to quit."

"No."

"Dee, Papa was... he was loopy! He... most kids don't learn how to handle guns! I shouldn't... I shouldn't know how to shoot people with rifles! I shouldn't have to do that! I wanna go to school and be normal!"

"Theta. You are no longer a child, no matter what your temperament is."

"I know, but... there are grown-up schools. I want to learn things and meet friendly people and not shoot guys in the face! And I want you to do that, too! You're always tired and worried and you keep sticking your fingers in paints... but in a sad way. And... Dee, I just... I want you to be happy, too."

"There is no room for happiness in this venture. It is too important. Happiness is a weakness," Delta said quietly, looking downwards. He didn't add that he wasn't sure that either he or Theta had the capacity to be normal.

Before Theta could protest any more, Gary walked in the door.

"Any information?" Delta asked, glad that there was a distraction from this chain of conversation. Theta started wringing his hands together again, staring at the computer screen once more.

"One piece of information. It is as we thought. Washington was lying about her being high up. The ambush was her first job. She has decided not to work in the field any longer."

"She may have been lying."

"I can tell when someone is lying. She was not," Gary said calmly. "Twisting the truth, perhaps. She did not say she planned to give up working for the Director entirely. I believe that is difficult. But she is not privy to most of their information. However, she gave me one address. An office. She claimed that some who work for the Director use the office as a fake job. Something they can put on forms."

"Hm. Interesting. I will send someone to check on it tomorrow."

"I can do it. I already have the address memorized, it would be simpler—"

"I will send someone else," Delta repeated sternly.

"...Very well."

* * *

Two days after Delta told him about a possible traitor, Church was walking back towards the safehouse. The place was just making him more and more nervous, and he preferred to spend as much time outside it as possible. Although when he was outside the house, he worried constantly about Eddie. Whether or not Eddie was actually there or wandering around the streets like Church was. Neither seemed very safe at the moment. But it was probably the first time in a decade where the streets seemed safer. What with the house holding both a prisoner and a traitor.

The traitor. Church's mind was set completely on O'Malley. And he did not want to leave Eddie in the same house as that psycho for too long, anyway.

As he pondered this, his mobile rang. He picked up.

"Yeah, whaddaya want?"

"Do you have to answer your phone in the most douchey way possible?" Tex asked. Church came to a stop, frowning.

"Tex? Thought you said calling made someone a wuss."

"No, I said calling within twelve hours when you said you wouldn't call for a week was clingy. Anyway, not the point here. You wanna grab something to eat tomorrow?"

"This a date?"

"Hell no." Tex let out a long sigh before adding, "I need something to do, alright? Shit's been going on, I just want to hang out with someone who ain't a part of it. And you're not as annoying as some other guys."

"Uh. I can't."

"Why not?"

What reason could he even give? He probably could think of one... but what if she checked? She was a policewoman, they were always paranoid and checking shit. If he just said yes, then there'd be no problem, would there? She wouldn't be suspicious.

"Wait, I was thinking of something else. No, I'm free. What'll we be getting?"

"I dunno. Cheeseburgers, maybe?"

"Awesome. When and where?"

About ten minutes later, most of which had been occupied by the phone call, Church entered the safehouse. The first thing he heard was a vomiting sound coming from the bathroom.

If it'd been someone down in the basement with Wash, Church couldn't blame them. Maybe it was Theta. He seemed more uncomfortable about the torture than the others, and had shown a reluctance to know anything about it. But no... Theta couldn't have gotten down the stairs with that leg.

Church pushed open the bathroom door. Eddie was slumped over the toilet, still making heaving noises.

"What's wrong? You..." Church paled. "You went in the basement, didn't you?"

Eddie threw up again, before turning around. He looked pretty distraught. "Leo? I don't want to help anymore."

"I told you not to go down there! I told you!" Church yelled. "Who the fuck let you—"

Right on cue, O'Malley came waltzing in. "Why's the bathroom so crowded? Move, you're blocking the sink—"

"DID YOU TAKE EDDIE INTO THE BASEMENT WITH YOU?" Church roared. O'Malley stepped back, so that he was standing just outside the bathroom.

"No need to shout. And he asked. I didn't see a problem with it." O'Malley grinned. "Besides, isn't it better to find out if he has the stomach for this business when he's still young? Isn't it better he find out now, in safe, controlled conditions, than when he has a lot of guns pointed at his face?"

"I'm... I need some fucking air," Eddie mumbled into the toilet. He climbed to his feet and stumbled out. Church heard the front door slam. O'Malley grinned even wider, before moving to the sink to rinse his hands.

"There's something... incredibly satisfying about watching someone's child-like naivety being shattered," he sighed happily. "Makes me feel warm inside."

"You fucking asshole," Church growled. "Why don't you just stay in the basement and keep whatever sick shit you've got going on to yourself?"

"Whatever 'sick shit' that is, it makes me feel brilliant. Don't you think it'd be cruel of me not to share that warm glow around?" O'Malley said, in that mocking faux-sweet kind of voice. "In any case... I'm leaving the prisoner be for a few days. You know what they say, the anticipation is a form of torture on its own. Don't feed him. He kept spitting blood at me, and people that rude don't deserve food."

* * *

Epsilon did go back down to the basement. But only once O'Malley and Gary were working on something else, following some man who... did something. Epsilon didn't know. No-one told him anything about their work. It used to annoy him, but after seeing Wash... now he was very glad that they didn't involve him.

He'd waited until everyone was distracted, either doing a job or, in the case of Delta and Theta, working on something on their computers. Then he grabbed a sandwich and a cup of water and headed towards the basement. He'd heard O'Malley tell Delta not to feed the prisoner. But fuck O'Malley, he was a weirdo.

When he pushed open the door, Wash immediately flinched away from him. Especially when Epsilon flicked on the lights so that he could see. He tried not to throw up again. Although it was difficult. He walked towards Wash, who just curled up as much as he could with the restraints, trying to shield himself.

"Can you eat?" Epsilon asked.

"Who're you?" Wash slurred. He looked around wildly, though the blindfold still prevented him from seeing. He could probably tell the lights were on, though. "You're not... that... that..." he trailed off.

"Uh, if you want food... I have a sandwich here. Does it hurt to eat with the teeth thing?"

"I said who're you? Don't know you. You one of them? Or you someone else?" The hopeful tone in Wash's voice was very, very depressing.

"Sorry. I'm with them. They just don't tell me anything. Uh. I'm Epsilon."

"Oh." Wash turned his head away, closed his mouth shut as tightly as possible.

"Um. You want the food? Or the water? You'll die if you don't have water soon, at least." Epsilon picked up the glass, grasped Wash's chin and turned his head so they were facing each other. He held the glass to Wash's lips, but Wash just turned his head away from him. "Please? It's just water."

"I'm not falling for that again."

"I promise there's nothing in it. On my dad's motherfucking grave, I promise you it's just water."

Wash still seemed reluctant, but he did turn his head back, let Epsilon give him the water. He seemed wary at first, but once he realised the water really hadn't been tampered with he drank it quickly. A good portion of it ended up dribbling out, though, dripping onto his blood-stained shirt.

"So... what's your deal?" Wash said, once he was done with the water.

"Eh?"

"Is this some new form of torture? Some kind of Good Cop Bad Cop thing, but with criminals? Don't... don't think that I can't see it."

"Fuck no. No tricks. I just... thought it would suck to be locked down here, and..."

"Bullshit."

"You want your food or not?"

"Hurts too much to chew."

"Uh. Well... guess I could find something that'll go down easy. I'll be back, okay?" Epsilon climbed to his feet, holding the sandwich, and headed upstairs.

He ran smack into O'Malley, who was standing right outside the door. O'Malley smiled widely before placing his hand on the wall next to Epsilon, blocking his exit.

"What were you doing in there?" he asked. "You weren't feeding the prisoner, were you?"

"No?" Epsilon lied, acutely aware of the fact that he was holding a sandwich. "No, I... yeah, okay. I was."

O'Malley didn't move. Just stared down at him. Epsilon noticed that he was holding a knife in his other hand. A very sharp, uncomfortably close knife. He held his breath and hoped O'Malley wouldn't be nuts enough to shove it in his gut.

But O'Malley didn't. After a long, uncomfortable stretch of time, he stepped aside. When Epsilon didn't move, he gestured towards the living room, leering. Epsilon hurried away, only breathing out once O'Malley had headed into the basement.

* * *

When Tex got to the hospital, Carolina's bed was empty. A nurse told Tex that Carolina had died the previous day.

Tex had just nodded, turned around and left. It wasn't surprising at this point. A month in a coma didn't bode well. There were emotions... but Tex crushed them into a tiny cube and shoved them away for when she wasn't surrounded by strangers.

Or, worse, her father. Who was sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, as if he'd been waiting for her. Tex walked past him without a word, but she heard footsteps behind her and knew he was following.

"What, Dad?" Tex's voice came out thicker than she'd intended, like she was holding something – screaming, crying, who knew – back. She swallowed and tried again. "Nevermind. Don't want to hear it. Fuck off."

"I raised you with better manners, Allison."

Tex came to a halt and spun around to look her father in the eye. Big mistake. His eyes were identical to Carolina's, and it stung to see it. It was likely similar to what the Director had always seen when he looked at her. Tex resembled her mother, who she was also named after, so closely that pictures of her and of her mother were indistinguishable.

"It's Tex. It isn't Allison," Tex said firmly. "What do you want? We have nothing to talk about."

"I'm sure you have guessed, Allison."

"I'm not doing your dumb work. Hell, I should have you arrested right now."

"You wouldn't do that," the Director said, staring her down. He did look tired, but it wasn't enough to endear the old bastard to Tex.

"Wouldn't I?"

"Let me rephrase. If my men stationed around the hospital see the police arrive, there will be a shootout. They know not to shoot you. But a hospital is a terrible place for bystanders."

Tex huffed and started walking away.

"Your help would be invaluable. We're down quite a few men," the Director said, keeping pace behind her. "We could catch the men who did this if we had your help."

"That all I am? Some foot soldier to do your stupid work? I'm not like Carolina, Dad, I don't buy your bullshit. And I ain't letting your bullshit get me killed."

"The only man responsible for Carolina's death is the one who gunned her down," the Director said steadily. Tex's stomach writhed with anger just looking at him. Carolina had never gotten the same treatment Tex had – the two sisters had fought continually as a child because Tex had always been number one, had always been the apple of Dad's eye, and all too often Carolina had been pushed aside while Dad paid attention to her – but he wasn't even showing any sadness at her death.

"You're just as liable. You should never have let her become... become one of your faceless goons. It's your fault. So fuck off, because I'm not dumb enough to go along with it."

Tex stormed off. She only let herself scream and cry and kick walls when she was back at home, where no-one, especially her father, could see her.

* * *

Delta didn't try interrogating Wash again until nearly a month after they'd caught him. When he finally did, Church decided to get the hell out of the house. He didn't want to see it this time, once had been bad enough.

This time, he took Eddie with him. So that there was no chance Eddie would get into that basement while the interrogation was going on.

"Where are we going?"

"I don't fucking know, alright? Food."

"We had lunch like an hour ago."

"I said food!"

"Okay." Eddie plodded along after him, kicking pebbles as they went along. "How long are we going to... you know. Keep Wash there?"

"Fuck if I know."

"How long will it be before we can leave that house and move somewhere else?"

"Don't know."

"Well... when will—"

"Look, I don't fucking know, alright?!" Church snapped. "Stop annoying me with fucking questions that I can't fucking answer! Fuck!" Eddie came to a halt, looking spooked. "Sorry."

"It's okay?"

"This shit is just getting to me... I guess."

"Yeah. I get that."

They walked in silence for a while. Then Eddie said, "If... if we tried to leave... do you think Dee would let us?"

"I have no fucking clue." Church threw his arms up in the air, frustrated. "I think some of his screws have come loose since... He's got all obsessed with getting the Director, and when he's not working he just sits there with his hands covered in paint."

"Yeah." Eddie looked depressed for a few moments, then said, "You think we could ask? I mean... if you want to quit and all."

Quitting. Just quitting all this criminal bullshit. That sounded like a very appealing option. Killing random smugglers was bad enough. But having people die and torturing people in the basement was just...

Church wanted no part of it anymore. Of the torturing and killing and smuggling... he was completely sick of it.

"I'll... I'll ask him." Though Church mentally decided not to ask until Delta had found the traitor. He didn't want to give Delta more reasons to believe it was him.

* * *

"The Councilor," Delta said, as soon as Church walked back in through the door.

"Uh, what?"

"If we want to find the Director, we need to find the Councilor first. At least, that is what Wash has claimed this time."

"He didn't lie, this time?"

"No."

"So, if Wash gave you the right information... why can I still hear screaming?" Church asked, gesturing at the floor. Muffled screams were still making their way through.

"Wash stopped answering questions after he let the part about the Councilor slip. I calculated that leaving him alone with the Meta would be an efficient tactic. It has the added bonus of keeping Meta busy."

There was a thumping noise from downstairs, and a rather loud snarl.

"He has been restless lately," Delta finished. "Sigma... he had more control over Meta than I did."

Eddie, who had been standing behind Church until then, immediately muttered something about more fresh air and walked back out again. Church flopped onto the couch.

"Okay. Who's the Councilor?"

"The Director's second and the one who gives out most of the orders. Apparently, he is one of the few who interact with the Director in person. The only other one that Wash knew of was Carolina herself, and it clearly is not possible to get in contact with her, and someone called Florida, but I have never heard of such an agent. In any case, now we know what to question their agents about. We find the Councilor and we will find the Director."

"Uh. This ain't gonna involve more people in the basement, is it?"

"Only if they try to evade giving us answers."

* * *

Two months after the ambush, Church was still seeing Tex.

It would make sense to dump her. But he couldn't. And he knew that it wasn't because he 'didn't want to act suspicious.' That became obvious once they had their first proper fight. It'd been about something really stupid. Church couldn't remember what. He just remembered that Tex had been surly and miserable that week to begin with and that there'd been some holes smashed in the wall, like someone had been kicking the walls. Whatever the reason, it ended with Tex throwing a shoe at his head and yelling that she didn't want to see his face ever again.

They hadn't spoken for a week. Church had known dumping her then would have been the smartest thing to do. What would be suspicious about dumping her in the middle of a fight? But he didn't want week they didn't speak was absolutely miserable. After that, he went trudging back. Tex had let him in. They hadn't spoken a word about the fight. They'd both just returned to their routine of bickering, angry sex and the very occasional friendly moment.

Thing was, Tex was really the only normal part of his life nowadays. His work at the moment consisted almost purely of killing people and trying to get information on the Councillor. His home life consisted of trying to ignore the noises coming from the basement and trying to figure out how to get out of this criminal life. But when he was with Tex, he forgot all about it.

Sure, there was a lot of dancing around any feelings. The closest thing they had to dates was grabbing cheeseburgers or beers. Even any emotional stuff, like the time they held hands, quickly turned into something like hand wrestling. Tex always won. The sex was kind of angry and rough, and there was rarely cuddling afterwards.

But it felt normal. It was the only time Church didn't feel like a criminal.

Goddammit, it felt awesome.

* * *

"This is getting kind of dull to be honest. You're not screaming like you used to."

Wash didn't bother to answer. He didn't bother to move, he just stayed slumped against the pipe. He wasn't even sure if he was awake or dreaming or what. It was hard to tell, these days. He was slipping. Coherent thought was rarer. Still, if he knew he was going mad, then he wasn't quite mad yet. He hoped.

He could feel Omega sitting very close. Something was being carved into his side. The pattern was familiar. Wash was sure Omega had carved a similar shape into him before. Wash used to scream or cry when this happened. But now, he was just too goddamn tired to care.

The last... who knows how long, was blurry. It started off clear. But then the torture... all the different tricks they'd pulled on him, from the mind-numbingly painful, like the teeth pulling, to the petty but still painful, like putting salt in his water when his gums were still torn and bloody... it all just blended together after a while. He knew he'd lost a lot of things during it... most of his teeth, his toenails and the fingernails on his right hand... not to mention his clothes had vanished at some point, though he couldn't remember when or why.

He had tried to figure out who had locked him in here, but the only one he'd seen the face of was the Meta. He'd gathered that there was seven of them, or at least seven that he knew about.

Most often, it was Omega down in the basement with him. Omega with his knives and pliers and other things. Then there was Gamma, who often helped. And who was probably the one playing the little tricks on him, like the salt water thing. There was also the Meta, of course. Who just went for out and out beatings. Snarling and growling the entire time.

The others didn't do torture. Delta had appeared twice to ask him questions. There was Theta, who occasionally hobbled down to leave food by him, but who quickly hurried away each time. There was also someone called 'Alpha,' but Wash never heard him speak. He just heard Delta refer to him. Wash assumed he was the leader, judging from the name.

And then, of course... there was Epsilon. The only one who had shown him any kindness. The only one who didn't mess with his head when he started a conversation. Who brought him food and drink during the periods when Omega tried to starve him. Epsilon's visits were the closest thing to anything happy in this pit, the brightest points in this dark hellhole. Although, because of that, they just made the bad parts seem so much worse.

"Do you know how long you've been here, David?" Omega asked. Wash still didn't answer. If anyone (the exception being Epsilon) started a conversation, it was never going anywhere good. "You've been in here for two months. Your timing was quite fantastic, really. If Delta had been his usual self, he would have disposed of you within the first month, if he captured you at all.

"Does it feel terrible to know that no-one is looking for you? Do you even have any friends? Family? Loved ones? I'm just curious, three months together and we barely know each other. It's tragic."

"Perhaps he would be more forthcoming if we brought Epsilon in here. He talks to him," Gamma said quietly from the corner. "Would you like that, Washington?"

Wash didn't answer.

"Perhaps we should bring Epsilon down here again during one of the more creative tortures. Like with the fingernails." Omega grasped Wash's hand and pressed down on where the fingernails used to be. Sharp pain. No noise, too exhausted. "Still a whole hand left to do."

"I think he'd enjoy it," Gamma said. Again, quietly. He never raised his voice, never laughed or used a mocking voice like Omega. "I daresay playing 'the nice guy' is getting rather dull."

Playing. Playing the nice guy. It wasn't real. Epsilon was tricking him. Wash knew that. It felt like real kindness sometimes, sure, but he knew it was tricks. Of course it was. Of course it was. Even if those were the nicest moments in this pit... but they made everything else feel worse, so he was doing that on purpose. Just to make this torture stretch on longer, just to make him really feel it. Of course, of course, of course.

Those thoughts started looping. There was nothing to do but think in this pit. Even when Omega and Gamma got bored and left, the thoughts kept going. Tricks, tricks, tricks, all tricks. Of course. All tricks. Playing nice. Good cop bad cop it's not real it's all tricks of course of course of course—

Looping faster and faster. And then eventually the door swung open again. Lights switched on. And Wash heard Epsilon say, "Hey. I brought you some food and stuff. Could only find peanut butter, you're not allergic to peanuts, are you?"

One question. One considerate question. Out of all the things that could have caused Wash to snap, it was a question about allergies.

"GET AWAY!"

"Whoa. What the fuck?"

"Get away from me. Get away get away GET AWAY. I know what you're doing, it's not working, you're not gonna trick me! You're not you're you're... Get the fuck away from me! I'm not falling for it!"

It was like a dam had broken and let out all the anger and fear. Wash started pulling again on the bike lock, on the chains that bound his arms, and goddamn it he didn't care if he choked or if he had to chew off his hands to get the chains off, he wanted out he wanted out HE WANTED OUT—

He didn't notice when Epsilon left. Didn't notice the food left at his feet.

"Not going to trick me. Not going to trick me," he muttered. He slumped against the pipe. "Not gonna trick me..."

* * *

Three months after the ambush, Church stomped into the kitchen and immediately went, "What the fuck is going on?"

Theta was sitting at the table, hands clasped over his head and tears were pouring down his face. And Delta stood over him, white with fury. Delta's voice wasn't raised, but there was fury radiating from every syllable. So much so that Church felt like he might shrivel up.

"I gave no clearance for this. I gave no clearance for you to amble into what could have been another ambush. You did not tell me of this. You did not double-check your facts with me. You simply left."

"It was all okay! I triple-checked! And I got the information!" Theta sobbed. "Why are you so mad?"

"You were irresponsible, Theta. I am very disappointed in you and you should have—"

"Should have what, Dee?! You wouldn't have let me go!"

"That is the precise point I am making," Delta hissed. "You should not have been there."

"I did fine! I did it. I'm just as good at this kind of thing as the others! I'm best at guns! I only... I only got shot because I ran out of ammo!" Theta rubbed his bad leg. It'd been three months, and it had largely healed, but he still walked with a slight limp. "Why are you treating me like... like..."

"I am treating you like a child, Theta. Because only a child runs off into a situation like this without telling anyone."

"That is stupid!"

"What the fuck is happening?" Church yelled over them.

"Theta did not ask before following one of his leads," Delta muttered.

"So what? It worked, didn't it?" Theta wiped at his eyes angrily before shoving a piece of paper across the table towards Church. "The Councilor's address. I found it. Found a lead, followed it and... well, here it is."

"You seriously found it?" Church picked up the piece of paper. "So what's the shouting all about?"

"Dee's being mean about it," Theta sniffed.

"I can see that. Jeez, Delta, what are you on? Kid did good. Better than we've gotten in two months. Why are you so mad?"

"He was not supposed to go." Delta stared at Theta with such a foreboding look that Theta started crying again. Delta stayed silent for a few moments before he pointed. "Go to your room."

Theta fled the kitchen, still crying. Church blinked, still confused. He knew if his little brother charged into a such a situation, he'd be really upset, too. But it wasn't like this had been the first time Theta had been in such a situation.

Delta massaged his forehead. "I suppose I should set a date to deal with the Councilor on." He waved his hand at Church and nodded at the door. "Outside. I want to discuss something."

Church followed Delta out the door. Delta continued talking once they were in the front yard.

"I have located 2.0. His name is Dick Simmons. Lives in an apartment within two miles of this house. No criminal connections other than hacking activities. Ninety-eight percent chance that he did not even know the intent of the program. I intend to investigate his work within the week."

"Really? About fucking time."

"I determined his name and location nine days ago. However, I wanted to wait until we had located the Councilor to tell you." Delta paced for a couple of moments, before adding, "Not the way I wished to find the information, but now that we have it, there would be no point in postponing it. I will acquire the information I need from 2.0 while you and Meta are acquiring the location of the Director from the Councilor."

"Alright. I can do that. So, we got what we need now, right? That means we don't need Wash. We can get rid of him, yeah?"

Delta stared off into the distance thoughtfully. "I think it is prudent that we keep him until the Director has been eliminated."

"What? Why?! Come on, you're just making excuses!" Church jabbed his thumb back at the house. "He's not even making sense anymore! I heard! All he's done in the past month is gibber. Mostly about tricks. He's snapped, he ain't gonna give us any more information, alright?!"

"We do not—"

"We do know that, he's a gibbering potato! You know this, goddammit, you're the logical one! So what the fuck are you even doing? Is this about Sigma? Is this about revenge? Can't torture Carolina any more, so you go for the closest thing to her you can get?"

Delta froze. "I... I do not understand."

"Yes, you do. Enough already."

Delta started twisting his fingers together, mimicking one of Theta's nervous tics. "It... it is not like that. I..."

"Then what is it like, Delta?"

"I... I, uh..." Delta paced back and forth, still twisting his fingers together. "Yes, I have been emotionally compromised by certain events. But it is not just... emotions." The way Delta pronounced emotions almost made it sound like a dirty word. He looked down at his hands. "I... I am not 100% sure how to proceed. Ever since I took over Father's business, Sigma has been there. Whenever a plan required more than pure logic – and it always did – Sigma would suggest a course of action.

"I no longer have that, and I require Sigma's spontaneity and creativity to proceed. I have tried to mimic his train of thought." Delta rubbed his fingers. There were still faint paint stains on them. "But I simply do not know how. And if I do not proceed correctly, there is a very high chance that someone else will die. Next time, Theta might not escape with only a limp."

He traced the paint stains on his finger before saying, "It is not simply due to revenge that I keep Washington locked away. If we eliminate him, we cannot reverse that action. And I am... much less sure than I would be under normal circumstances."

Church frowned, rubbing his chin as he considered this. "Uh, yeah, fuck that," he muttered. "Look, forget what Sigma might have done, Delta. He ain't here now. He can't tell us what he would have done, so we just gotta do... well, what fucking makes sense. And what makes sense is to get rid of Wash. He's barking mad. He ain't gonna tell us anything new. We gotta put him out of his misery. That's what makes sense. And that choice ain't gonna kill anyone." Church met Delta's eyes sternly. "If you gotta listen to someone to figure this stuff out... well, you listen to me, okay? Besides, I'm the Alpha. What I say should go."

Delta studied Church's face carefully. After a few moments, he stopped playing with his fingers and nodded once.

"We will dispose of him once we have spoken to the Councilor."

"Guess that's better than you being nuts."

"I was not, nor have I ever been, insane. I have symptoms for only a few mental disorders, none of which are serious enough to be labeled insanity."

Neither of them saw Epsilon watching them through the curtains, looking worried.

* * *

"You are such a girl," Tex muttered.

"What?"

"Cuddling? Really?" she tilted her head, grinned up at him. She felt warm and soft, even with all the muscle. Church rolled his eyes, arms still wrapped around her and his torso pressed to her back. God, hugging a wall of muscle was comfy.

"I don't see you moving away," he said.

"What? Not like I said stop. Just said it's girly."

"Pfft."

Church felt really sleepy, and goddamn was it hard to stay awake in that position. But he had to go back home soon. Not leaving Eddie there.

His fingers were absently petting Tex's hair. The fact that she hadn't called him out on it was a good sign.

"Hey, Tex?" he mumbled sleepily.

"What?"

"You want to go on, I dunno, a proper date sometime? Like to a restaurant and shit?"

"What's brought this on?"

"I dunno. Sounded... not completely terrible. Thought it might be okay. Never done it before, but—"

"You never been on a proper date?"

"Well. No." Church pulled a face. "Shut up. Being a 'single parent' doesn't leave a lot of time for that kind of shit."

"Hm. I'll only do it if it's somewhere with good steak. I'm not eating anything fruity like salads."

"Fuck yeah."

* * *

Two days later, Delta approached the apartment of 2.0.

He hoped that no-one was home. It would make things much easier. Although he knew that was unlikely, considering that this Simmons was most likely the sort who spent all day at his computer, working. Which would make this very, very difficult. If it came to the worst, Delta had a gun in his bag. But there'd been enough unnecessary bloodshed. He couldn't let his emotions and his confusion over no longer having a safety net cloud his judgment like it had for the past few months.

As he approached the apartment building, ready to pull open the door, it was shoved open. Delta immediately heard arguing.

"I'd much rather get chicken. Steak isn't that great."

"What the fuck? Steak is fucking awesome, what planet have you been living on? You gotta get out more, Simmons."

"I hate getting out."

Delta stood still, glancing back at the two who had just passed him. He'd caught Simmons' name. He didn't believe in luck, but if he did he would have thought it was on his side. He watched the two men long enough to judge that the redhead was Simmons and mentally filed his appearance away, as well as that of his chubby companion, just in case. Then he headed inside, now much less nervous now that he knew 2.0 was out of the house.

The door was locked, but it didn't take long for Delta to get past the lock. Wasn't a particularly good one. Nor did the room with the computer in it even have a lock. The computer itself was a bit more protected. It took Delta a full three minutes to get into the files.

Once he was there, he started checking the files for any records of who Simmons had sold his programs to.

Ten minutes into his search, he found something. A record of a request for something fitting the description of what was on the disc Delta had found in his computer. And the alias of the person that had ordered it.

Gamma.

Delta quickly copied the file to the memory stick he'd brought with him, and got out of there as quick as possible, thankful that he hadn't sent Gamma to deal with the Councilor.

On the way out, he stopped at the mailboxes on the ground floor and located Simmons' one. He removed a letter from his bag and pushed it in. A friendly warning. He didn't want to do this again. He could let this infraction slide. If Gamma hadn't paid Simmons to do it, it would have been someone else.

"Oh god, did you actually have to make it so messy?" Church complained.

The Councillor had been ridiculously easy to corner once they knew where he was. No guards. They'd snuck in wearing balaclavas, for god's sake. Just in case he had cameras or something. It'd actually thrown the Councillor off, because he'd briefly thought they were some of the Director's men.

He wasn't thinking at all anymore. After half an hour of being tied to a chair and hit with a pipe that Meta had brought along, the Councilor had readily provided them with the Director's location. After so many months of looking for him, it was kind of anticlimactic.

Once they were done, Meta had killed him by... well, hitting him more. It'd left a mess. At least it was quick, though. Even if it looked like his head had exploded.

"We should leave. We really don't want to be found standing over his corpse or anything," Church said nervously, putting away the notepad he'd written the Councilor's information on. Meta growled in agreement.

The car ride back was silent. They had to go a fair bit further than normal, as the Councilor had been living much further away from the city than the rest of the Director's men. Church was driving, while Meta stared out the window and fiddled absently with the metal pipe he'd killed the Councilor with.

When they were ten minutes away from the safehouse, Meta let out a small noise and pointed at the street they were passing. Church slowed down the car and looked to see Theta sitting on a bench, holding a skateboard. Theta waved at them, clambered to his feet and made his way down the street towards them.

Church unlocked the back door and Theta clambered in. "Are you guys going back home?"

"We're going to the safehouse, yeah. Not exactly home, but whatever. Same difference," Church grumbled. "The hell you doing out here?"

"I was skateboarding. I skinned my knees," Theta mumbled. "My leg doesn't balance so well any more."

"That sucks."

It was silent for a couple more minutes. Then Theta sat forward and leaned against the back of Church's chair.

"Hey, Leo?"

"Yeah?"

"I need your help with something. I... I need you to help me convince Dee to give up... this. It's just... I mean, I know he thinks I'm being paranoid, but I'm not! I mean, I trust the guys."

"All of them? Even fucking O'Malley?"

"Um, maybe not him so much. He's scary. But if we keep this up, we're gonna get caught. All the people we chased down, finding the Councilor... one of them has gotta be traceable. What if they find us? Or what if the policelady you keep visiting says something? What if you accidentally slip?"

"Hey, leave Tex outta this."

"Sorry. I've tried to convince him to stop... but it's not working." Theta laughed bitterly before adding, "What does the little brother know? Maybe you can talk him out of this... this pile of... stupid."

"Why me?"

"He listens to you. More than he listens to me, anyhow. You're the Alpha. Maybe he'll—"

Church's mobile rang. He rifled through his pocket, answering it and expecting it to be Tex. She was one of the only people that ever called him. Instead, Delta spoke.

"Get back right now. We have a serious problem."

"What? What kind of—"

"Epsilon. It is Epsilon."

* * *

Wash was tired. He wanted it to be over.

He didn't recognise anything any more. Everything was a dark blur of pain and torture, and the knowledge that no-one would ever help him. It was a relief not to have hope any more, honestly. He'd been broken. No-one could break him further.

He couldn't see. The pain of the scars and wounds were dim. He just felt numb. The stink of sweat, urine and faeces filled his nostrils, but he was used to it by now. He couldn't bring himself to care about anything. He just wanted an end.

But then, suddenly... there was light.

It hurt. It hurt more than the teeth being yanked out. More than the scars. More than the beatings. More than having salt flood his mouth. More than the crushing sense of defeat. The light flooding into his sight burned like someone had poured molten lava onto his irises. He screamed and screamed and screamed.

"Wash... Wash, please, stop. I'm trying to help you."

"No... no, I... new trick," Wash choked out between moans and screams. Slender fingers touched near his neck. Wash recoiled and sobbed, tears trying to wash away that god awful brightness.

And then suddenly, there was a noise. A metallic noise. And the metallic ring that had attached him to that pipe, the ring that Meta had tugged on time and time again to choke him, was gone. Wash was stunned. He was so stunned he barely noticed the restraints on his arms and legs being removed.

"Wash. Listen to me." That voice... that was Epsilon. Trying a new good cop trick. Of course, it suddenly made sense. He was being teased with escape. "They're gonna kill you when they get back. I'm not gonna let it happen. I'm gonna get in big trouble, but Le—um, I mean... I think Alpha can... can protect me."

Wash reached up to touch his neck. It was rubbed raw where the lock had been, but he was free. Sharp pains shot through his arms. His legs simply felt... numb.

"Right, um... you need clothes! I mean, it'd be weird going without them. Uh, shit, you need a new blindfold, don't you, or else you'd see where... Oh man, I'm so out of my... okay, hang on! I need to find you clothes!" Wash couldn't see anything except vague shapes within the unbearable brightness, but he heard footsteps clunk back up the stairs.

This was still a trick. Wash knew that. He knew that, because that's the only way anything made sense. Epsilon was still playing good cop. One more attempt to get information out of him. But his arms and legs were free. He wasn't chained up.

He had one more chance. Hope – hope that Wash had thought was long dead – flickered inside him like a dying candle. He didn't think. He just crawled. But not to the stairs. He crawled to where the clinking sounds that always accompanied O'Malley picking the day's torture implements came from. He felt. He found a table. He reached onto the top of the table and accidentally cut his finger open on something sharp. He didn't pull it back – physical pain was nothing new. He just felt until he touched a handle.

He'd found a knife.

At that moment, he heard footsteps echoing on the floor above, heading back to the basement. Wash crawled. To be more exact, he used his arms to pull the rest of him along, because his legs refused to move at all. His arms had gotten some movement in the past three months, albeit not much, but his legs had barely budged at all and were now paying the price.

Left arm... drag forward... right arm... drag forward... the knife in his right hand scraped the ground each time he reached forward with that hand. He could hear footsteps coming down the basement stairs.

No more. Wash had been resigned to death only a few minutes ago, but now there was hope. He would not die here. He would not lose this sick game.

When a dark, humanoid shape appeared in the doorway, holding some sort of bundle, Wash lashed out with the knife. He slashed at the boy's ankle and dug at the tendons. The screaming should have been horrible, but to Wash it was music because it meant he was winning, and that this fucker would never bring him false hope and kindness ever again.

Wash saw the dark shape flailing and hitting the ground, unable to stand on his ruined ankle, so Wash crawled. He was weak as a kitten. He was operating on pure determination, and even then only the fact that he'd surprised the boy was what stood between him and defeat.

So with one more attack, Wash plunged the knife into the boy. Just once. It was all his tired arms could manage. Wash started to laugh. A mad laugh that sounded almost like he was screaming.

"I win! I win! You... I told you that you couldn't trick me. I told you! I told you! You... you haven't beaten me!" he screamed. "I... I win. I win. I win..." He wrenched the knife out of Epsilon and dropped it in the puddle of blood that was accumulating underneath Epsilon. He turned away and crawled towards the stairs. It took him a good ten minutes to pull himself up the tiny amount of stairs, but he pulled himself forward. He kept crawling until he was out of the house, still laughing madly. He couldn't have even said why he was laughing.

He never would be able to figure that out. Years later, that last month in the basement would be completely hazy. The next thing he'd be able to clearly remember would be waking up in the mental hospital. He wouldn't remember how he escaped at all.

* * *

Half an hour later, Gary came back. Gary considered himself intelligent, but it didn't take intelligence to know that something was off when the front door was open and blood was smeared on the door handle.

"Epsilon?"

He walked further in. He saw that the door leading down to the basement was also wide open, and that bloody hand prints had been rubbed into the carpet. He immediately felt very cold.

"Epsilon?"

He walked towards the basement. And saw the body lying just beyond the door.

Gary moved quickly to Epsilon's side. His face was chalk white. There was so much blood. Gary checked Epsilon's pulse.

Faint. Still there. He was alive. Gary pressed his hands against the stab wound on Epsilon's stomach. He looked towards the pipes that Wash had been tied to. Nothing there. Wash was long gone.

Gary grimaced as he saw the knife lying there. He'd told O'Malley not to leave his instruments lying around. He moved one of his hands and picked it up.

That was when he heard a voice behind him.

"So, it really was you."

He turned around to see a gun pointed at him. He noticed that before he saw that Delta was the one holding it.

"You should not have betrayed us, Gamma."

"Wait a—"

The last thing Gary heard was a gunshot.

Delta kicked Gary's body away from Epsilon, before kneeling down, checking his pulse. Then he pulled out his mobile and dialed Church's number.

"Get back right now. We have a serious problem."

* * *

"Nooooooooooooo!"

"It's Simmons' fault!" Grif immediately yelled.

"Hey, you're the one who wiped the computer, don't go bitching at me because you were stupid enough to stick one of my discs in there," Simmons muttered. Sister was still staring at the computer screen, pressing random keys like one of them was the secret 'restore all data' button.

"All the photos I saved from Facebook! All my lolcat pictures! All my porn! Gone... All gone..." She covered her face with her working hand, the other arm still being in a sling. "Oh, man... This sucks. Need a smoke. Dex, where'd you put my pot?!"

"Simmons threw it out."

"Stop blaming me for everything!"

"What?! Aw, this really sucks. Why'd you throw it out?"

Simmons had tossed it out on the off-chance that the police found them. Being charged for murder was enough, he didn't need to be charged for having illegal drugs in his house as well. ...Not that it would matter in a worst-case scenario, but better safe than sorry.

"Because... it, uh... something," Simmons mumbled.

A couple of weeks after the murder, things were basically back to normal. In a way. Although the matter still hung around in the back of Simmons' mind. What if the body was found? What if someone had seen them? What if Sister heard about the jerk's disappearance and guessed the truth? So many questions. Simmons did his best to ignore it, since there was nothing he could really do about it. But being neurotic at heart, he couldn't really help it.

He wondered if Grif was as concerned as he was. He didn't look like it. He was just sitting on the couch, flipping through the newspaper. He was only reading the comics. That's all he usually did.

As Simmons looked around for the coffee (Grif had probably left it somewhere, despite Simmons' attempts to keep everything in order) he yelled, "Aren't you supposed to be at work or something?"

"Oh, who cares if I'm late? I mean, seriously. Is the whole burger place gonna fall apart because, horror of horrors, I'm not there dumping that weird mayonnaisey lettuce onto burgers?" Grif muttered. "Jeez."

"Might get fired."

"The key word being 'might.' I'm not done reading comics."

"You're an idiot. You've lost like ten jobs in the last two years, you really gonna risk another one?"

"For comics? Fuck yeah." Simmons didn't pay any more attention until he heard Grif say, "Oh shit."

"What now? They cancel Garfield or something?"

"Uh. I think you should come here and see this."

Simmons rolled his eyes. Grif probably was gonna show him something stupid, like that news item on a water skiing parrot. He wandered in, looked over Grif's shoulder at the article he was pointing at. "Oh shit."

It was about the jerk they'd killed. His body had been discovered.

"I thought it'd take longer than that," Simmons whispered. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

Grif didn't look quite as worried as Simmons felt, but he had gone kind of pale. "They're gonna find us. They're gonna fucking find us."

"What're you guys looking at?" Sister wandered in, head tilted. Grif immediately flipped the newspaper over to the comics section.

"Showing Simmons a Garfield comic," he said. "It's better than Peanuts."

"What? Fuck off, Peanuts kicks Garfield's ass. You just like Garfield because he's lazy and orange like you."

"Yeah, right."

"Well, I'm going out. If you have make-up sex after this argument, can you at least do it in Simmons' room? Even if the lights are off, I don't want to walk in and see Grif's butt going up and down—"

"Don't bring that up!"

"Now, if it was Simmons' butt, that'd be okay."

"Yes, okay, bye!" Grif yelled. He got to his feet, starting shooing Sister out of the apartment. "Yeah, I'd love to continue this conversation, but can't, you have things to do, don't have sex with strangers, love you, bye." He slammed the door after her. "Urgh."

"Okay... they have no proof it was us, right? Nothing to worry about," Simmons said. He wished he believed his own words.

"Uh... yeah. I think we're fine, but... I haven't been able to find my wallet since we murdered him..."

"Oh god."

"I probably just dropped it somewhere else, but... uh..."

"Okay. Here's the plan. We act like normal. Completely normal. They shouldn't know it was us. We'll be fine. We'll be completely and totally fine."

* * *

A couple of weeks later, at about four in the afternoon, Simmons was working on his computer, trying to write up some particular viruses. As he did that, the doorbell rang. He didn't get up to answer it. Sister was home. Probably one of her friends. They'd been stopping by a lot since she returned from the hospital.

He heard Sister's footsteps. And then some conversation. He didn't really pay attention until he heard Sister say the word 'cops.' Then he froze.

"So, you're cops or something? I've never had a cop over here before. Except that time we held a bachelorette party here, but that wasn't really a cop, that was just a stripper dressed as a cop. I kinda got yelled at by Grif for that. Doesn't appreciate cops with their junk hanging out or something. What's going on?"

Simmons quickly felt around for his mobile phone. Grif would have gotten out from work by now, but he always stopped by to pick up some oreos and other junk food. Thank god he usually spent ages browsing the junk food section.

"No, I'm Kaikaina Grif, not Dexter. Do I look like Dex to you? Dex doesn't have boobs this sweet. He only has, like, man boobs. He doesn't have the cool kind."

Simmons thanked whatever gods were up there that Sister was such a motormouth.

"No, he's not here. He's at work or something, I don't fucking know. I don't have to answer questions to you. I can call a lawyer. I have rights. I totally read that somewhere."

Simmons found his phone and saw that there was a text message from Grif on it. He'd switched his phone off earlier because Grif kept calling because he was having an argument at work about zombie plans and wanted Simmons to side with him. After the fifth time, Simmons told him he was a dumbass and switched off his phone.

The text message was quite short, but it said everything that needed to be said.

**OH SHT COPS. FKN RUN.**

Simmons had already been sweating at the knowledge that the cops were at the front door. Now that he knew they'd found Grif, his nerves were in full overdrive. He quickly deleted the text before getting to his feet.

If they were at the front door? Well, nothing he could do about that. He'd just have to go out there and get his ass arrested. It'd look less guilty than jumping out the window.

Before that, he quickly grabbed one of the discs from his drawer and slipped it into the computer, starting up the program that would quickly wipe all data from the computer. Didn't need the extra charges of writing illegal viruses.

He started the wiping process, then got to his feet and headed for the door. Funny. He thought that the cops would enter rather more dramatically, instead of arguing with Sister at the door. He was expecting them to burst in, waving guns.

There was only the one man standing at the door, although when Simmons got closer he noticed two policemen out front, keeping a watch along the streets. Sister was still standing in the doorway, arguing.

"Totally deserve a lawyer. Why are you even here?"

The man standing there spotted Simmons. "Richard Simmons?" It was one of the few times that Simmons had heard his full name said without someone laughing afterwards.

"Yes."

"I'm Detective Max Gain. I'd like to ask you and Kaikaina a few questions."

Well... they hadn't started their introduction with 'you are under arrest.' Or shot him in the face. Maybe they didn't know what he'd done. Maybe this was related for something else.

No. He'd heard them asking about Grif. What could the police want to question both him and Grif about besides the murder?

"Call a lawyer," Sister stage-whispered.

Best way to avoid suspicion... Simmons supposed it would be just answering their questions. It'd look better if he was polite and agreeable.

"Uh, sure. Come in, sit down. Do you want coffee?"

"That'd be good. If you're going to make coffee, I'd like to ask Kaikaina questions first, although if she's really that persistent on finding a lawyer... though it seems somewhat pointless, neither of you have been charged with anything yet..."

"I'll just go and make the coffee..."

Simmons kept resisting the urge to try jumping out the window, the entire time he was making coffee. He didn't hear Max's questions. But he did hear Kaikaina say 'random guy #3' a few times.

As he was pouring the water into the mugs, he did manage to make out some of the conversation.

"Yeah, he's chased guys up trees loads of times. Once there were bees. He only got stung like twice, though, so it was okay."

"I... I see. So, you would say he's very protective of you?"

"Yeah, total pain in the ass about it."

Simmons finished making the coffee, carried it out. Max did raise his eyebrow once he saw that there was binary printed on the coffee mugs, but didn't comment on it.

"I think I've gotten enough from her to make some assumptions. Kaikaina, I'll have to ask for you to leave your room while I question your... roommate, is it?"

"Yeah, roomies. I mean, we groped each other once, but..."

"Could you please leave so I can question him?"

"Awww, fine..." Sister pouted before leaving the room.

"How long have you and Dexter Grif lived together?"

"Uh... I'd say it's about seven years, now. Why?"

"Just basic questions, nothing to get worried about. Kaikaina tells me he once chased you up a tree."

"Yeah."

"Was this the only violent occurrence to happen between you?"

"Yeah. I mean, we argue a lot, but mostly about superheroes. Why?"

"I'm attempting to get a better picture of his more violent tenancies. See how likely it is that he commited the murder."

"The murder?"

"Yes." Max held up a photograph. "Do you recognise this man?"

Simmons stared at the photograph for a few moments. It took him a while to recognise the douchebag, as he wasn't wearing those garish sunglasses or in intense pain in the photo, and those were the only two ways Simmons had ever seen him in. But once he got past the lack of sunglasses, it was definitely the man he and Grif had killed.

"No. Don't know him," Simmons said flatly.

"I see. Well, I've gathered enough to know that he injured Kaikaina. She was under the impression that you told the police about that."

"Uh, yeah. It's that guy? See, I was going to... but she seemed pretty against me telling them in the first place, and she said she wasn't going to hang around him anymore. So I figured I'd stay shut on the matter. A lot of red tape and trouble in those sort of things, anyhow," Simmons babbled. _Dammit, Sister, why'd you tell him?_

"Hm. I've heard that reasoning before." Max frowned before putting the photograph down. "Well, that man was found a couple of weeks ago. Buried in a local park. Evidence suggests he was knocked out and taken there. Once the murderer took him there, he cut his genitals off before burying him."

Simmons did his best to look horrified.

"Okay. So, you're saying me or Sister is a suspect? Or..."

"We don't suspect Kaikaina, at least not in the murder itself. She was in the hospital at the time of death. It is highly unlikely she could have done it. In your case... well... there's not enough proof to arrest you. All we have is a possible motive, that being that he harmed your roommate."

_No proof? Fuck yeah._

"But we came searching for information on Dexter Grif."

"Well, he'd be back soon..."

"I doubt it. He's already run for it."

"Wait, what?!"

"You seem surprised. Earlier, we sent some policemen over to his workplace to apprehend him for questioning. However, he ran before we had the place surrounded. We did chase him, but he drives—"

"Drives like a mad person, yeah," Simmons muttered.

"He was clearly not surprised to see us, he ran too quickly. We have a clear-cut motive for him. And as if that wasn't enough..." Max held up another photograph. "We found this in the victim's apartment. It had his driver's licence in it."

The photograph showed Grif's wallet.

_Grif, you fucking idiot._

"It's a strong case. I'll have to ask you and Kaikaina to come down to the station for more formal questioning. I'd rather not do it by force. We need information to figure out where he might have gone."

"Okay. I'll come."

"Good. We'll leave immediately." Max put down the coffee, which he had not even sipped from. "Follow me."

The drive over to the police station was entirely silent. He and Sister had been ordered by Max not to talk to each other, so they couldn't run the questions by each other to make sure they were giving consistent answers.

But during the drive, Sister gave him a look. A very suspicious look.

She knew that Grif really had done it. And Simmons was pretty sure she knew he was involved. She'd trusted Simmons with the name of the guy who'd beat her. And he'd immediately betrayed that trust by telling Grif and helping him plot murder.

If he hadn't blabbed the name of the guy to Grif, he never would have done the murder. They wouldn't be sitting in a police car. Grif wouldn't be on the run.

_Dammit, Grif... I really hope you're safe._

* * *

"Is walking really that hard?"

A year after Junior had been born, Tucker was watching him crawl around on the floor happily. He'd spent the last fifteen minutes (a long time, as far as his attention span for teaching people things went) trying to get Junior to stay on his feet by himself. Hadn't worked.

"Well. I suppose this means it'll be longer before I have to make sure to keep... basically everything out of your reach. Don't want you eating my keys or something."

"Blarg."

"Blarg to you, too." Tucker glanced at the clock. Crunchbite was supposed to pick Junior up an hour ago. Not that Tucker minded too much, but he was supposed to go and see CT a while ago. Something about some good cons.

It wasn't completely necessary to join in another con at the moment. He was actually doing pretty well with money at the moment. It had started when he didn't tell CT about the information he'd learnt at that party. When he hadn't informed CT about the con he was pulling on the city official he'd met.

Even for how gross the blackmailing process had been (though not quite as bad as the first time he'd crossdressed) it had turned out well. Since the city official was a married straight guy (though Tucker had gathered that it wasn't the first time the city official had cheated on his wife, and he was more concerned about his straightness being called into question) he'd been willing to pay quite a lot.

Tucker had been rather nervous once he'd pulled it off. Was CT one of those criminals that just knew everything? What if he found out? What would he do to him? But CT hadn't confronted him about it, and eventually Tucker assumed he didn't know.

And so he kept going. Kept lying. Keeping tips to himself, skimming off the top of cons and not paying CT his full cut... it just kept going on. At first he reasoned that he really needed the money, that he was a struggling single father and that he was just trying to provide for his son. But, in all honesty... he'd stolen more than what he strictly needed.

Tucker picked Junior up from where he was attempting to chew on the table. Looking at his sharp little teeth, it might be possible for him to take a bite out of it. If he was given a few years, anyway.

"What's so great about the table? It's a table. It tastes like crap," Tucker asked, bouncing Junior on his lap.

"Blarg blarg blarg," Junior babbled happily. Tucker had no idea if he was speaking words in Crunchbite's weird language or whether this was normal baby gibberish. Junior reached up and tugged on Tucker's hair. "Blarg!"

"Ow."

The doorbell rang. Tucker got to his feet, still holding Junior, and walked over to the door. Crunchbite was standing there, looking kind of annoyed. He usually did around Tucker. Maybe irritated at the fact that the father/mother of his kid was a con artist. Like divorced parents that were never together in the first place.

"About time you got here. What took you so long?"

"Blarg honk," Crunchbite replied.

"Okay, whatever." Tucker handed Junior over. This seemed to upset him, because Junior immediately made an upset 'blaaaargh' and reached back towards Tucker. "Don't worry, Junior, I'll pick you up during the weekend." Tucker gently ruffled Junior's blue tuft of hair before Crunchbite left, taking Junior with him.

Tucker wandered back to his room to find his phone, let CT know he was on his way. The apartment wasn't big, but it kind of felt empty once Junior was off with Crunchbite.

Well, the emptiness could be fixed at least. Just had to pick up some random girl on the way back from whatever con he was doing this time. Easy.

"C.T! C.T, open up! Come on!" Joannes knocked on C.T's door again, shifting back and forth on his feet in a manner similar to a two-year-old who needs to pee. "I gotta talk to you!"

He waited for a long time, but eventually he heard footsteps. The door swung open to reveal a man with his hair styled into a mohawk.

"Who're you?" the man asked bluntly.

"I'm Joannes. I need to speak to C.T." The mohawked man raised an eyebrow, and Joannes hurriedly added, "Connie, I need to speak to Connie."

"Oh. If you know that detail, you must be fine." The man opened the door a bit wider and Joannes hurried in.

C.T, still dressed in pyjamas that didn't hide her gender at all, was sitting at the kitchen table, face propped on her hand and her eyes mostly shut. She had a mug of coffee clasped in her free hand, but it didn't look like it'd taken effect yet.

"Too early for this, Jones," she mumbled.

"It's Joannes. And I know, but it's important." Joannes looked at the mohawked man again. "Who's that guy?"

"Not important." C.T rubbed her eyes and tried to open them a little more. "Okay. What's happening? If it's not worth annoying me this early, I'm probably gonna throw this coffee in your face."

"Right, right, right. Uhhh..." Joannes sat down at the table as well, though the mohawked man remained standing. "Turns out we've been lied to. A lot. See... you know the guy I was supposed to blackmail?"

"Of course. This all going to be stupid questions?"

"Well, I got the photos and asked for the money. And as it turns out... he's already been blackmailed once in the last year."

The mohawked man frowned, but C.T just shrugged. "Different cons. Okay, that's annoying, but not so bad that..."

"I'm not finished," Joannes interrupted, before C.T could get any further. "Figured I'd get some info on the blackmailer. Figure out who it was. And it was apparently a cross-dressing black man going by the name of 'Laverne.'"

"...Oh." C.T shut her eyes. "That moron."

"And furthermore... they met at that party. You know, when Tucker was cross-dressing, and you were... is there a name for cross-dressing recursively like that?"

C.T frowned before clambering to her feet. She paced the kitchen a couple of times, still holding her mug of coffee. "So, Tucker's been holding out on us."

"I guess he kept the info he got there to himself."

"Asshole," C.T murmured under her breath. "Okay. Jones, check out some of the other people I got Tucker to con. Check if he's been skimming, withholding information, anything that incriminates him. Check how badly he's been holding out on us."

"And... after that?"

"Well. We'll ask him for the money back."

"Just ask?"

"We'll figure out the incentive. Get going."

Joannes nodded and left the house. C.T rubbed her forehead, thinking. The mohawked man just raised an eyebrow at her.

"Laverne Tucker?"

"Lavernius. Seemed like a good kid. Can't believe he'd... well, he was always a bit of an ass." C.T looked up at the man. "What do you think?"

"I'd say don't give him any leniency at all. You warned him before, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then don't pull punches. Find leverage to encourage him to cough up the money."

"Con men don't really have much leverage except their crimes, and that'd get me—maybe us—in a whole lot of trouble. I don't want to go back to prison."

"He's got to have something. What about family?"

"...Okay, we do have leverage."

* * *

That weekend, Tucker woke up with a big hangover.

"Ow. Jesus." He winced, sitting up. He checked under the covers. Naked. Must have picked up a girl. Judging by the fact that his bed was still very, very warm, the girl was still there. He checked the person lying next to him. Yep, girl. Thank god. Not a pretty one, but at least she had the right equipment.

He flopped back down again. He could sleep for longer. At least until the fucking hangover went away. Was there something he was supposed to do that day? He glanced at his alarm clock. Eleven.

Oh shit. He was supposed to pick up Junior at ten. He climbed very slowly to his feet. Heard the girl stir and mumble something before rolling over and falling right back to sleep. Hm. He wondered if Crunchbite could take care of Junior for another day. Not that he was a model parent to begin with, but he didn't want Junior to show up while he was hungover and with an ugly naked girl in his bed. If Junior was gonna see a nude chick wandering around his house, the girl should at least be hot.

He found the phone and dialled Crunchbite's number. Ring. Ring. He hoped Crunchbite would agree. He couldn't really tell if Crunchbite was saying yes or no, most of the time. Ring. Ring. Ring.

On the sixth ring, someone picked up.

"Hey, Crunchbite, you think you could—"

"Tucker."

That obviously wasn't Crunchbite. Crunchbite couldn't speak English.

"C.T? What the fuck? Why're you at Crunchbite's place?"

"I think I should be asking you the questions, Tucker. For example. Did you really think you could get away with stealing so much from me?"

_Oh shit._

"Oh... uh... you found out about that?"

"Yes. And to put it bluntly, you're on my shit list."

"Ah, crap. ...But why are you at Crunchbite's house?"

"Because I want my money back. And I didn't think simply asking would be enough incentive. And guess who I'm holding."

Tucker heard Junior blarging in the background. His stomach immediately twisted.

"No. No... you wouldn't. Please say you wouldn't."

"Junior? You want to say hello to your deadbeat dad?" Tucker heard C.T shift, and then he heard Junior's voice.

"Blarg!"

"Junior? Junior, I'm coming over to get you now, you'll be—"

"Blarg, blarg blarg?" Junior didn't sound upset. Seemed kind of sleepy. He usually got sleepy around eleven. Then C.T spoke up again.

"Listen. I'm going to leave right after this phone call. And I'm taking your son with me. You should probably get over here, I've left Crunchbite tied up in the closet. He was... uncooperative."

"No. Please don't, please don't take Junior! I'm sorry, I was an asshole, I'll pay you back! Just don't take Junior!" Tucker begged. "Not Junior! Anything but Junior!"

"Damn right you'll be paying me back. If you play your cards right, this won't be a permanent removal. By my calculations, you've stolen 30,000 dollars from me over the last year. Could be wrong, but we'll settle on that. Add another 20,000 for the inconvenience and sheer douchebaggery of what you've pulled. You find all that in the next fortnight, and I'll give you back your son."

"I can't find 50,000 in two weeks, C.T! How am I supposed to... what happens if I can't pay?"

"Then I break in my new handgun."

"No. No! Please... please, you're not... you're not that much of an asshole, this isn't Junior's fault! Why you—"

"I told you there were penalties for screwing around with me. In fourteen days, at eleven in the morning, I will send Joannes over to your house. He will bring you to me. You will pay me, I will give Junior back, and we'll forget this ever happened. If you even think about calling the police, show up at my house without warning or the money, or try to weasel out of this in any way, the deal is immediately void. And if the deal becomes void, then a bullet-ridden Junior is going to turn up in a ditch somewhere.

"And for the record? I am that much of an asshole. See you in a fortnight."

C.T hung up. And Tucker was left staring blankly at the phone. More terrified than he'd been in his entire life.

After a few minutes of blank staring, he dropped the phone and ran out of the house, not even bothering to tell the girl he was leaving. He'd go and untie Crunchbite. And then they'd figure out what to do.

He didn't care what he had to do to gather that money. Even if he couldn't get all the money, he'd storm C.T's place and find Junior all by himself. Because there was no way anyone was going to harm his son.

* * *

Grif was just driving in circles.

He had no idea what to do. He was just driving around the city, circling, circling, circling. Trying to figure out what to do. What could he do? He'd been driving like that for hours. Ever since he'd fled from home. He was just... just blanking. He knew the longer he did this, the bigger the chances of getting caught were. But... he just had no idea what else to do.

Every few minutes, he would check his phone. Seeing if Simmons had sent a message. Nothing. What was he supposed to do? What if they set up blockades or some shit? He couldn't stay in the city. He couldn't.

But... But Simmons was still here. And Sister. He couldn't just leave them behind. If they knew he was involved in the murder, they probably knew that Simmons was as well. He couldn't just leave that behind. And if he ran off and left Sister... he couldn't do that. He was the last family she had left.

But what could he do to help? If he went back, they'd arrest him.

Grif slowed down, parked in a small alleyway. He needed to think. What places were safe? Maybe somewhere out of the state? Or country? Maybe he could do what they did in the movies, run off to Spain or Mexico or some shit like that.

But it still came down to the same problem. He'd have to leave Simmons to the cops. Leave Sister to probably end up in a ditch after an aspirin overdose or something.

_Dammit. Dammit. Dammit._

Grif thumped his head on the steering wheel, the honking noise scaring the hell out of a tiny old lady who was wandering by. What to do. What to do.

As much as he hated it, running was the only available choice.

He pulled out of the alleyway, started driving as fast as he could out of the city.

He kept driving. He drove for hours. There were no blockades. He managed to get out of the city again. But then he would always end up turning... He wasn't exactly fleeing. He was just going in much bigger circles, through the surrounding towns.

He stopped driving only once. That was to get fuel. He paid using what he had left in his wallet. There was maybe a few dollars left afterwards. If he ran out again, he was absolutely fucked.

But still. He kept aimlessly driving. Not going back home, to face the police. But not fleeing either.

Eventually he stopped driving. He was tired. He was nodding off. He couldn't help it. He was fucking tired. Running from the cops for hours and hours did that to you. He parked in an alleyway. It was really dark. Maybe he'd be lucky. Maybe no-one would find him.

And if they did? Well... that'd suck. But he was gonna crash at this rate. He needed sleep.

Even with how shit scared he was, he fell asleep really fast. It wasn't as if he was a stranger to sleeping in his car.

* * *

He was woken up by his mobile ringing. Ring. Ring. Ring.

He picked it up. It'd tell him if it was Simmons. Unknown caller. What the fuck did that mean? He answered.

"Hello?"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Simmons roared on the other end.

A huge wave of relief went through him. Just hearing Simmons' voice was enough for that.

"What happened to you? And why does my phone say unknown caller?"

"Fucking police dragged me and Sister off for questioning all fucking night, only let us go five minutes ago. And I'm calling from a phone booth. I mean, I don't know if they've tapped the phone back home, I think it's illegal for them to do that without telling me, but just in case... What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"The police showed up!" As Grif talked, he started up the car. Didn't want to remain in one place for too long.

"And you ran?! That's like wearing a neon sign that says 'I'm guilty.'"

"I panicked, alright? I... I just freaked out. Couldn't help it, alright? I don't have your... balls of steel or whatever." Pulling out of the alleyway, into the street.

"It's not balls of steel, it's fucking common sense, you dumbass! Where are you?!"

"Uh..." Grif looked around. "No fucking clue. I... I've just been driving in really big circles. I'm in one of the towns near the city, not sure which one."

"You fucking idiot. You ran, and you didn't even run far away?!"

"I blanked!"

"Fuck yeah you did!" Simmons stopped for a moment, then said, "Look. Sister wants to talk to you. And... and she knows what we did."

"Wait, what?!"

"I told you they questioned both of us. She guessed."

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Fuck! Fucking... fuck!"

"She's gonna strangle me if I don't hand over the phone now. She's already pretty pissed at me, so... hey, don't just—"

"DEX, YOU FUCKTARD!"

Grif winced, held the phone at arm's length. He could still hear Sister screaming at him clearly.

"Dex, how could you?! How could you?! You're insane, how could you mess everything up just because you got pissy about a guy smacking me around a bit?! Seriously! Chasing a guy up a tree is one thing, sure, but murder?! Fucking murder, Grif! Fucking murder! You're insane! Insane! And why didn't you tell me? Not cool! Just, so not cool! Now they're gonna arrest you and guys are gonna jump on you in the showers and you won't be able to find protection in prison and you'll get pregnant and then you'll have to raise children in prison and—"

"What. The fuck. Sis, I'm a guy, I can't get fucking pregnant!" Grif yelled at the receiver. At the same time he turned and steered into a back street. Empty. Wasn't that late in the day, these streets probably weren't going to be busy. He sped along. Driving as crazily as he always did. Wasn't like he planned on stopping for the cops.

"Nuh! I heard there was this guy that did some weird experiment that made a kid with two guys... it was on the internet and everything. Anyway, that's not the point! Whyyyyyy?"

"I know, I fucked up. I fucked up big time. But—"

"Why? Why did you do that?" Sister sounded like she was on the verge of crying.

"Because he was a bitch-ass bastard who deserved to have his balls chopped off, alright?" Grif snapped.

"I told you not to get all up in my grill, that includes killing jerkass ex-boyfriends! Not cool! And now they're gonna arrest you! You gotta keep running! Off to Mexico! Or Spain or something! Where they can't get you or anything—Hey, I'm still talking! Gimme the phone back!"

"It'd be hard for you to get to another country. You're on the run, using credit cards or whatever would be like a huge 'I'm here' sign," Simmons said. "Even getting out of the state would be a bitch. Now, if you wanted to be pretty much a hundred percent safe from our police, maybe you could run off to a country without an extradition policy with us."

"A what now?"

"God, you're an idiot. I would have told you to stay right here, at least then there would have been a chance that you'd be proclaimed innocent. But... after running like this?"

"Fuck." Grif slumped back in the driver's seat. "You're saying... there's basically no hope, right?"

"Well... there's not much of it. You come back, you're... you're completely screwed. And if you keep running, well..."

"Well, that's just fucking—OH SHIT!"

As Simmons had been explaining the chances of Grif's success, Grif had turned into another street. Still completely empty. He hadn't really been paying attention, paying more attention to what Simmons was talking about.

He hadn't noticed the red light. And he didn't see the worn out pick-up truck that was driving across the street until it was too late.

Grif dropped the phone and tried braking hard, at the same time hitting the horn as hard as possible. It wasn't working. He was still sliding forward, he was gonna hit it, he was gonna—

The pick-up truck swerved out of his way, missing him by inches. And Grif felt a split second of relief, right before he skidded off the road and crashed into a street sign.

The crash was a complete blur. Grif got thrown forwards. The only thing that stopped him from plummeting into the windscreen was his seatbelt. But he still hit the side of his head and crushed his arm pretty badly. Pain shot through his whole left side.

He heard a crashing noise behind him. And someone yelling "Grif! Grif!"

Everything had kinda gotten dizzy and foggy. He felt for the door handle. Door wouldn't open. Too crumpled. Numbly, he started to crawl into the other seat, so he could climb out using the other door.

Then he realised what was making the 'Grif!' noise. The phone was still on. He could hear Simmons yelling frantically. He picked it up with his right hand.

"Wha?"

"What the fuck just happened?!"

"Fucking... fucking pole. Crash," Grif mumbled. Side of his head hurt. Still dizzy. But thoughts were catching up. Car was busted. That meant...

"Oh fuck... fuck... are you okay?!"

"Well... I'm not dead... but..."

Grif reached the other door. That door opened. He rolled out onto the sidewalk. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the pick-up drunk. It had collided with a tree.

"But? But what?!" Simmons yelled.

Grif heard Sister in the background, yelling. "Dex?! What happened? What happened?"

"I'm... I'm fine."

There was no movement in the pick-up truck. All Grif could see of the driver was blond hair, which was quickly turning red.

Grif was too exhausted to get up. Too tired to run. Too tired even to walk.

_That's it, then. I'm done._

Grif looked at the mobile. He could still hear Sister yelling. He'd failed her. He'd killed that douchebag to protect her... but what good was that now? He was going to leave her all alone... except... except Simmons was still there.

Simmons is a douchebag, okay... but... at least Sister is safe with him.

"Simmons. You gotta do something for me," Grif said quietly. "I'm... I'm fucked. I... Car's gone. And... I'm just too tired to walk..."

Grif could hear voices faintly. Someone in one of the surrounding houses must have heard the crash.

"Grif! You... you mean..."

"Look. I'm gonna tell the police... that I did the murder all on my own. It was all me. You're innocent. No..." Grif's eyes kept closing. Tired. But... had to stay awake. Just a little longer. "No... no point in both of us going to jail. Right? Heh... heh heh..."

"Grif, I—"

"But... you gotta do something. You... you need to take care of Sister for me. I don't care what you have to do to keep her safe. Even if..." Grif coughed. His mouth felt clogged. Felt like he'd knocked some of his teeth out. "Even if you have to... to marry her to keep her safe. I mean... better you than anyone else... At least I know... know you won't fuck it up. You have my goddamn permission to do that. Just... just take care of her..."

"Grif!"

"Tired..."

"Goddammit, Grif, what are you... don't talk like that!"

"Just... tired..."

"Dex?! Dexter, what are you on about?" he heard Sister say.

There were people around. He was vaguely aware of that. He could hear voices.

"Shit, call an ambulance! Oh god, this one's bleeding bad!"

"Hey! Hey!"

Grif dropped the phone. Slumped. He heard someone running towards him.

"Hey! You alive?!"

_I... I really fucked up..._

That was Grif's last thought before he fell unconscious.

* * *

"Out."

"Oh, come on, man..."

Caboose wrinkled his nose. The man smelt like alcohol and that glittery stuff that some of the strippers wore. It was icky.

"You cannot get grabby. That is against the rules," Caboose said sternly. He had a firm grip on the drunk guy's jacket, and was steering him towards the door.

"Seriously? They shouldn't walk around in that kind of stuff without expecting to get grop—"

Caboose shoved him out the door before he could finish speaking. Some of the people that came to the club were really stupid. Always breaking rules. Why would anyone want to grab people? He didn't get it.

The stripper that the man had been grabbing at, Nice Blonde Lady, walked over. She patted him on the arm.

"Thanks for that. Always lots of jerks on Saturday, even before most of the customers arrive." She smiled at him. "Need more bouncers like you. Ones that don't stare while on the job."

"I do not like watching. Naked dancing is weird. And the glitter hurts my eyes," Caboose said bluntly.

"You think? Should I tone it down?"

"It would make me less... not seeing."

"Hey! Get back to dancing! I don't pay you to talk to security!" the bartender snapped. The stripper immediately hurried back to the stage. Caboose went back to waiting for someone to act up. Or stop random hobos from walking in. That didn't happen much.

There was glitter all over his sleeve from when Blonde Lady had grabbed him. He tried scraping it off. It was like evil glue.

As he was picking at the sparkly pink stuff, he heard a voice.

"Caboose. Why are you here?"

He knew that voice. He looked up to see Sheila staring at him from the doorway.

"Sheeeeeeeeeilaaaaaaaaaa!" Caboose practically tackled her, hugging her really tightly while babbling as fast as he could. "SheilaSheilaSheilaSheilaShei la! IwaslookingforyouandIcouldn'tfindyouandIgotreallyscareda ndthenIgotajobatthisplacebut Idon'tlikeitmuchbecausethere'speoplewithnopantsduringpant stimeand—"

"Okay, okay, slow down," Sheila said, patting him on the back. "Slow down, it's okay, I'm not going to run away if you don't talk fast enough."

"Okay. Sorry." Caboose stopped clinging to her and put his hands behind his back. "Uh... I have never seen you not wearing a doctor coat before."

"Yes. It's a bit strange, isn't it?"

"No. You... you look pretty. You always... um... yes. Pretty,"

"Thank you. That's nice of you to say. But really... what are you doing here? You don't seem the type to work somewhere like this."

"Well... I tried to find you. But I could not find you. And then I had to eat trash hot dogs, which were not nice..."

"...and there were boogeymen and lots of spiders. The boogeyman is still there, though, because he always runs away before I can get him, and if I fall asleep when he is still there he will eat me. And also, there is glitter on all of my clothes. And yesterday I tried ironing clothes because they do not like me showing up in wrinkly things and I burnt my hand," Caboose finished. He'd talked for a straight fifteen minutes, trying to explain all the icky things that had happened.

Sheila didn't say anything for a while. She looked like she was thinking. She was good at that. After a while, she looked around. The club was still kind of empty, which meant that the bartender would not yell at Caboose too much for not paying attention to the door.

"I've never been inside a strip club before," she mused, still looking around with a detached kind of interest. "Very shiny."

"Yes. But it is not the good kind of shiny. It hurts my eyes."

"I can see why. But... back to the matter at hand. Caboose, normally if an eighteen-year-old ran away from his mother, well... I wouldn't endorse it unless there was a good reason, but I wouldn't be overly concerned. You, however... You're still not in the best mental state."

"I know. When I think, it feels all sludgy."

"Yes. You'd need years more therapy and treatment before you'd be ready to live on your own."

"But I am already living on my own."

"Not well. And you're too easy to take advantage of."

"No, I—"

"How much are they paying you?"

Caboose frowned, before trying to remember the number. It was hard. He did not have enough fingers to count more than ten dollars.

"Um..."

"Is it more than minimum wage?"

"I do not remember what that is."

"Well... the short version is you just don't know enough to live out here properly. Besides, your mother has been out of her mind with worry."

"Mama... was worried?"

"Very."

"She is not angry at me?"

"Not at all."

Caboose started fiddling with his sleeve again, trying to scrape the glitter off. "I... am happy about that. But I cannot go back. I was in the way."

"No, you—"

"Yes, I was," Caboose interrupted. "Mama was always yelling because I... did stupid things like fall out of trees. And she was sad. She... she never used to be sad. I am making her sad, so it is best that I stay away. And if I stay away, she will not have to take care of me, and then she can have a new son, one with a good brain, and... then she will forget all about me and be happy again."

"She's sad because she doesn't know where you are. She doesn't even know if you're alive or dead, that's depressing her more than anything. Don't you miss her? Or any of your family?"

"Yes. More than anything. I miss them more than I miss being able to think. But... but I do not want to be difficult." Caboose didn't look at Sheila, he just kept scraping at the glitter.

Sheila stayed for a while longer. She kept asking him questions. She didn't bring up Mama or any of his family again. There was talking until Caboose felt a tugging on his sleeve. It was Blonde Lady. Just after he'd finished scraping all the glitter off...

"Who're you talking to? Who're you?" Blonde Lady tilted her head, looked at Sheila. "Ooh! Are you his girlfriend or something? No, wait. You look a little old for that."

Sheila blinked a couple of times. "Old? I'm only twenty-nine... well. I think I've... I've seen enough for today. And I don't want you to get shouted at by your boss."

"Yeah, he sent me over here to tell Caboose to stop being distracted," Blonde Lady said apologetically. "He said no talking on the clock."

"Ah. Well. I'll come and see you again soon, alright?" Sheila turned around, took a couple of steps out, but then turned and looked back. "You know your birthday is in two days, right? ...I think it'd be a nice time to spend with your family."

"Sorry." Caboose picked at his sleeves some more. "You can... you can tell Mama I am okay. I do not want to worry her. But... I do not want to trouble her."

Sheila sighed and nodded, before leaving. Blonde Lady stared out after her for a few moments.

"She seemed nice. But why didn't you tell me it was going to be your birthday? I could have, I don't know, organized a party or something. Any excuse for a party is nice, right?"

"Hm? Oh. I did not know."

Had it really only been six months? It felt like so much longer. Felt like it'd been years since he first ran away from home.

* * *

"Can you get the boss to let me off an hour early?"

"No."

"Pleeeeeeease? I'll make it up, I'll do an hour on some other day. On one of the busy days," the blonde stripper said. "Please? Come on, you got good mojo with him, or something. He actually listens to you."

The bartender looked up, rolled his eyes.

"Why the hell are you insistent on this? And why are you only asking now?"

"Because I didn't know it was Caboose's birthday tomorrow until, like, yesterday. I'm gonna go to his house, hide in the closet, and when it hits midnight—Surprise!"

"I assume this involves dancing?"

"Obviously. Private show. Best present ever."

"I doubt he'll like that. I think he's gay or something. That's why he's always... well..." The bartender gestured over at Caboose, who was determinately staring anywhere but at the strippers. As usual.

"Noooo. I think he likes that doctor girl that was here yesterday. He's just shy. What better present than to get him over his fear of boobs?"

"...You're an idiot."

"Oh yeah? Wanna bet? Twenty bucks."

"Fine. Twenty bucks say you traumatize him."

"Shows what you know."

* * *

Caboose was very sleepy when he got back home. It was very late. He could not read clocks, but the bartender man said that it was about eleven. And it took a while for him to wander home, even when he didn't get lost. It was also rainy, which was not good. Everything was wet, and he almost slipped while climbing down the set of stairs that led down to his door.

When he tried to open the door, it was locked. He did not usually bother locking the door, because he kept losing the keys and could never get them in the lock properly and there was nothing worth stealing anyway. The door should not have been locked.

He had to go to the old lady upstairs to borrow the spare set of keys. And then she ended up trudging down to unlock the door for him, after he got the key stuck in the lock. She wasn't happy about that. Very grumpy.

When he got back inside, he spent a while trying to get a can of beans open. Didn't work, but he found bread to chew on. Good bread. Yummy.

After that, Caboose rolled into bed, intending to go to sleep.

But then...

Thump.

Caboose sat up. He stared at the closet. The boogeyman. The boogeyman had to be in there. And he was louder than most other nights. Maybe this time he was going to really try and eat him. Caboose felt under the bed and grabbed the knife he kept there. So that he would always be safe from the boogeyman.

Another thump. This one was quieter.

Caboose's fingers tightened around the knife handle. He quietly climbed off the bed. He'd done this before. The boogeyman always disappeared once he opened the closet and stuck the knife in there. But the boogeyman had never been so loud.

He inched towards the closet. And he thought he heard a small laugh. The boogeyman was mocking him. But he would not run. Because... because he could face up to it. He could. Then Sheila would see that he was fine on his own. And... and maybe he could stop being such a problem for Mama and the others... maybe he could go back if he was strong enough to get rid of the boogeyman.

He grabbed the handle of the closet. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath and pulled it open.

"SURPR—"

The yell was cut off by Caboose stabbing the creature in his closet. He had his eyes closed. But he felt the knife actually hit something. And something damp spilled onto his hands. He'd done it. The boogeyman would not terrorize him anymore. He opened his eyes.

The blonde stripper stared back at him. Her eyes were wide. Mouth open. Her fingers scrabbled at her stomach, where the knife was buried, splattering blood on her sparkly clothes.

"Blonde lady? You are the boogeyman?!" Caboose yelped.

The blonde stripper's mouth open and shut a few times. She didn't seem to be able to make any noise. So Caboose thought, until she screamed. A loud, high-pitched scream which tapered off into coughing within a few seconds. It was enough time for Caboose to panic and clap a hand over her mouth.

"No, no yelling! You... you will make people angry. I... are you the boogeyman? If you are not, I am really sorry, stop screaming, please—"

She was squirming. Her painted nails scratched at his hands, leaving shallow gouges.

"Stop screaming! Stop screaming!"

She kept clawing at his hands. Bits of screams kept slipping through his fingers when she jerked back.

Caboose wasn't thinking. His hands just automatically went for the throat. It cut off any screaming. Cut off any noise except for a gurgling, choking sound.

"Quiet! Quiet! Quiet! Quiet! Quiet!" Caboose kept whispering. "Quiet! Quiet! Quiet!"

He wasn't sure how long that went on for. Eventually, she did quiet down. She also stopped moving. She did not look pretty anymore. Her face was blue. It looked all swollen, too. It was weird.

"Why are you in my closet?" Caboose asked. No answer. "Are you really the boogeyman?" No answer. "Is that why you led me to this basement? So you would have people to eat?" No answer. "Blonde lady?"

She wasn't moving. Caboose looked down at his hands. They were bloody.

It was just like Apples.

But Caboose didn't react the same way he'd done with Apples. He slowly turned around and wandered out of his little room. Up the stairs that led to it. Into the rain.

He held out his hands. Like he was using a tap. The rain washed the blood off. The red-tinted water landed in the gutter and got swept away. Caboose stood there for a while. Not thinking. Just doing.

Then he wandered back inside. Back to the closet. He saw the blonde stripper's body. Still sitting in the closet. He stared at it a moment longer, then slowly closed the closet door and plodded back to bed.

He went to sleep, ignoring the thick coppery scent that was now wafting through the room.

* * *

"Hello? I'm looking for Ms. Julie Delano. Is she in this hospital? Which room is she in?" Donut asked. He was balancing the container of cake in his right hand, and clinging to a plastic bag with the other. His clothes were rumpled, because he'd slept on the train. The nurse raised an eyebrow at his questionable appearance, but didn't make any remarks about it. She just gave Donut directions to the room that Mama Julie was in.

Third floor. On the way up, Donut started to worry.

He knew how this went in the movies. Someone was told their relative was dying. They freaked out. They stayed at home. Refused to face the situation. Eventually they came to terms with it. And then they would run to the hospital, flowers in hand. (Or in this case, cake.) Only to find that they were just too late, and that their loved one had passed on.

That was always how it went in the movies. On television. On basically every form of media. It was a law or something. Donut froze up. He came to a halt, still balancing the cake precariously. What if he really was too late? What if... what if... what if she was already gone?

Donut forced himself to keep walking towards the room. Dreading that he would see an empty bed where his mother should be. It was always an empty bed. Always.

He stopped in front of the door. Hand reached out to grab the door handle. He froze. He twitched his fingers. Then he turned around and walked away again. Stopped a few steps away.

_Come on. You can do this. You gotta do it. Or else so help me, I will slap you._

Donut knew his bitch slaps were pretty awesome. So he immediately turned back. Reached out for the door again.

Only to have it open before he could even touch the handle. Mama Liz stood there.

"Crumbcake!" Immediately, she flung her arms around Donut. He only managed to stop her from knocking the cake out of his hands because she had always been prone to hugging him when he was carrying fragile objects. He'd had many years of practice.

"Hey. Uh... I brought cake," Donut said feebly.

"Crumbcake, Crumbcake, Crumbcake! Ohhhh, I'm so glad you're here..."

Donut put down the plastic bag before patting Mama Liz on the back and moving out of the hug. "Um... How's Mama Julie?"

"She's doing alright. Treatment seems to be taking. She's doing about as well as we could have hoped." Mama Liz looked very tired. But she was smiling at Donut. "You want to go in and see her?"

"Uh. Yeah."

"I'll wait outside. Maybe just spy through the windows. I don't want to get in the way or anything..." She shooed Donut in, shut the door behind him. Donut shifted nervously, before looking at Mama Julie.

She looked far too skinny. Sure, she'd always been a kind of gangly woman, but she'd never looked so bony. And she also looked very, very yellow. Dark shadows under her eyes. She looked like she wasn't doing very well at all. Had Mama Liz just been attempting optimism?

"Uh... Hi, Mama."

Mama Julie was just gazing at the wall. She didn't answer immediately. But when she did look at him... Donut immediately felt a little better. Her eyes were just the same. Despite the shadows under them, they looked the same as ever. Her expression clearly said (to Donut, at least) that she was cranky, though.

"You're late," she said sternly, as Donut sat down on the stool next to her.

"I... I know."

"Hm."

Awkward silence.

"Uh..." Donut fidgeted. "I... I brought you cake."

"So I see."

"And... and I... well, I'm sorry I... didn't... show up earlier. So... I got you some DVDs." Donut reached into the plastic bag, pulled out the DVDs. "I mean, I could only find a few. But they're all crime drama things. I got some Law and Order. Only CSI I could find is that one with the guy who always puts on sunglasses. I can... uh. I can always go back to the store, have another look around—"

Donut was babbling by this point. He was interrupted by Mama Julie reaching out, patting him on the head. In a sort of uneasy, awkward way. Showing any form of affection was an oddity for her.

"It's alright. Just you being here is enough," she muttered. "Stop babbling."

"Ah. Uh, okay."

It went back to awkward silence, until Mama Liz wandered back in. Picked up one of the DVDs and bringing up an episode that she recognised on the back cover. Which sparked a light argument between Mama Liz and Mama Julie about who the killer should have been, something about it not making sense that the killer was really the taxi driver or something.

Donut didn't say much. But listening was fine. It was just like old times.

* * *

Donut stayed for a week, sleeping on the couch at home. He spent as much time as possible staying next to Mama Julie. It was the only way he could think of to make up for flaking out earlier. There was little conversation, but that was relatively normal with Mama Julie. Once the awkwardness started to subside, it mostly turned into Donut going back to his usual babbling. With Mama Julie just offering the occasional 'hm,' 'oh' and, if she was feeling talkative, 'okay.'

She still looked pretty yellow and skinny. But the yellow started to fade slowly over the week. She was still funny coloured by the end of the week, but not to the horrible degree she had been earlier. The doctor said it was a sign that the treatment was working, at least for now. That she would be able to return home fairly soon.

"That's... a lot less dramatic than what I thought would happen," Donut mused, once visiting hours were over. He followed Mama Liz to the car, trotting along behind her. "I though it'd be... I don't know."

"More people running around yelling 'stat?'"

"Kinda."

"I don't think the disease is at that kind of stage, yet. I mean, it was getting there, but..."

"But... will it happen? You said on the phone... that she might last a few years. That means... she only has that much left at the most... doesn't it?"

"Yeah." Mama Liz slowed down, coming to a stop. The tired expression was back again. "I know... we should have told you ages ago, but... well. It's not something we wanted you to worry about, especially when you were on the verge of leaving. Didn't want to tie you down, crumbcake."

"Well... I was thinking of moving back. I mean, if this happens again... I want to be nearby, you know?"

"I know Ju-Ju would love that... even if she won't say it out loud. But... it's up to you. Don't feel pressured, you can always just catch trains over here when you need to. I mean, it's a long trip, sure, but..."

"Shouldn't be a problem. I mean, I can get a job as an interior decorator back here, anyway. Probably. It's not like I have to live in another state to do that..."

A couple of days later, Donut got on the train and started heading back home. He'd break the news to Maine. He probably wouldn't care. And then he'd grab his stuff, quit his job (he'd probably lost it anyhow, running off without warning like that) and move back.

He wouldn't run again. Not now. Not when something this crappy was happening.


	104. Chapter 96: Everyone's A Dick

**Chapter Ninety-Six: Everyone's A Dick**

"And that's why it's the best crockpot recipe ever. Despite the inclusion of cheesecake, but I didn't really have anything in the fridge besides it and a few scattered things because my roomie had eaten everything and I hadn't gone shopping in forever. But, seriously, that recipe was awesome. It could melt your face. But in a fun way. I guess a close second would be—"

"Oh god, shut up!" Tucker groaned, covering his face. "Seriously. Did you eat a motor or something? Shut up, you're making my head hurt even more. It's a bitch already, it doesn't need your help."

"But I've been storing it up all day!" Donut whined.

"I don't care. You've got the most annoying voice I've ever heard. And you smell like a garbage bag!"

"I know that. It's hard to shower when I can't move."

"Is it too late for me to go stay in O'Malley's room?" Tucker asked Sheila, who was at the other end of the infirmary, sorting out the evening's medication. Often, she would stop and make some notes on the list of meds, trying to fix all of Doc's mistakes. Lopez was sitting there as well, occasionally making conversation with Sheila, although they were both mostly quiet.

"Definitely too late."

"Fuck. This is Hell. Obviously Caboose managed to kill me. It just so happens that Hell looks like the infirmary."

"I miss showers. Showers are awesome," Donut continued.

"Aaaaaagh. If you go into much more detail with this, I will name you as the main cause of despair in my suicide note!"

"Even with the dicks being everywhere. That was kinda distracting. But I can deal with that. Just have to stare upwards, make sure I don't look at anyone's dongle and think about cheerleaders."

"Great. Because I totally have to know about what you do and don't use as inspiration for jerking off."

"Hm?" Donut rolled onto his side. It barely hurt at all. "Now, the Tucker I know would have made some comment about how you'd like to stick your dongle in a cheerleader. Followed by that bow chicka arf arf thing you do."

"Hey, if you're gonna quote my thing, at least get it right."

"Something up? Something to do with Chur—"

"Don't. Mention. Him."

"But if you don't talk about your problems—"

"I said fuck off!"

"You're a jerk, you know that?"

"Of course I know that. I spent, like, eight or nine years conning people out of their money and hot chicks out of their pants. People don't do that unless they're douches, you know."

"Well... Maybe if—"

"No, Dye-Job. Con-artists are crappy people. They lie and cheat and kidnap children—"

"They what?!"

"Never mind that. Point being..." Tucker waved his hands around a little. "If I was pulling the con on you right now, I would do the whole sob story about how my mother was a drunk whore, never knew my father, got groped as a kid, didn't get enough love apart from the disgusting kind, got tricked into doing drugs when I was an impressionable dumbass... you know, the whole 'my life has been a trainwreck' thing. But since you got nothing useful, I'm just gonna flat out say that some people are just assholes."

Donut tilted his head. "Was any of the sob story true?"

"You'd have to read it back to me, I wasn't really paying attention. I just know that if I keep talking, it forces you to shut up."

"Ohhhhh. Smart."

* * *

"I dunno, man. Don't get me wrong, it sounds badass," Andy said, after Wyoming had finished outlining what he wanted him to do. "Really badass. And I'd love to get some of those dickmunching guards in the blast. But how the fuck—"

"I wasn't aiming for fatalities. That would draw, as you say, 'too much heat from the fuzz.'"

"You're behind the times, old man. Haven't heard anyone say fuzz in forever. Unless they were driving a 1950's car and trying to be cool."

"Ah. Well, my point still stands. If you can't help getting some of the guards in whatever explosion you cause, then fine. But don't... go out of your way to injure them."

"Hey, that's not even part of my problem! I don't have the stuff for that kind of explosive."

"What do you need?"

"A long fucking list of things. I can make homemade explosives, sure. But some of the ingredients ain't exactly easy to come by in a jailbox."

"Tell me what you need. And I will find it."

"Oh, come on. I know you're awesome at smuggling shit in, but—"

"I am better than 'awesome.' Smuggling a bottle of whiskey and a screwdriver in, or smuggling the ingredients for explosions. The principle is the same, really. Same process, even if the risk is slightly higher. And... when a chap spends a few decades in a prison, he will learn the ins and outs of the trade. And if that chap also spends ten years as a prison guard before that, then that's more... informative... than a hundred years on the other side of the fence."

"Sure, whatever. You give me the ingredients, you got your fucking explosion. Can't promise I won't kill anyone, though."

"I'll settle for that."

* * *

"Can you tell what they're saying?" Grif asked, squinting at Wyoming and Andy from the other side of the yard. He and Simmons had been playing cards, but they'd stopped in favor of staring.

"No. Can't read lips."

"Can't be that hard to read lips."

"Then why don't you?"

"Shut up."

"Told you. Dumbass. But it's weird. You ever seen Wyoming and Andy talk much before?"

"Nah. Not more than anyone else talks to Wyoming."

"Something weird is going on," Simmons murmured. "Wyoming is talking to Andy. And I think I saw him talking to Miller as well."

"So? Big whoop. Wyoming talks to loads of people."

"Yeah, I know. But Wyoming is friends with O'Malley, isn't he? I know I've heard Donut say that before. And Miller was talking to Lopez this morning. Lopez works with O'Malley, too. Lopez also left pretty quickly after Miller talked to him. But who would he rush off to see like that? I don't think I've seen him hanging around with anyone. And Andy was talking to Miller when Wyoming approached him..."

"How much have you been watching them? And I'm getting lost. What's your point?"

"None of them normally talk to each other. But they are now. And that's just how much I've seen in the cafeteria." Simmons picked up some of the playing cards, started stacking them. "You think it's all coincidence?"

"You think it's something to do with O'Malley?"

"Yeah. Look, there's the smuggler and the arsonist who is in here for blowing up a building. Maybe count Miller and Lopez as muscle. Something's happening."

"Well, if this is true and not a crackpot theory..." Grif scratched the side of his face, watching Wyoming and Andy. "Then shit is probably gonna go down. I mean, a guy with explosives? That would probably mean he's gonna... blow some shit up. Maybe a cell. Or blow a hole in the wall and escape."

"We can't wait much longer. If we see O'Malley... we have to get him. Right away. Probably be doing society a favor, they don't need someone like him running around in the open." Simmons started dealing out cards, though mostly just so he had something to busy his hands with.

"Uh, problem. We still don't know what O'Malley looks like. And while the others do... Church won't help. I think Tucker's in the infirmary. Caboose is in solitary. And Donut, well... I don't think he'd help us do something that would potentially get us locked up longer. Could ask."

"Hm. Yeah, this is... crap. But it'll be pointless knowing what he looks like if we don't have a plan. We need some way to get rid of him. A weapon at least." Simmons tossed a couple of cards at Grif. "And we can't go to Wyoming because he might guess what we're up to. I swear he knows everything. I think he's omnipresent."

"So?"

"So what? So what if Wyoming is omnipresent? Or so what if we don't have weapons? Or..."

"There are other places to get weapons." Grif grinned and nodded his head slightly towards Flowers, who was currently patting North on the back and motioning in a way that suggested a kindly, therapeutic speech was happening. "Guards carry them. Maybe if we found one that wasn't so bright..."

"Are you crazy or just stupid?"

"Hm. A little from both, maybe. Also, do you think there's an evidence locker for weapons they confiscate off inmates?"

"Not in any sane prison. Of course... this place is run by Sarge..."

* * *

"It's all coming together," Wyoming said, standing in front of the door that separated him and O'Malley. "Andy is definitely in, as is Miller and his little gang. That's enough of a start, is it not?"

Wyoming waited until a piece of paper was shoved underneath the door.

_Not enough. I'm not taking second chances. Need more. As much as possible._

"What would you suggest?"

_I need those religious nutcases. Much more reliable than Miller and his gang. Less likely to pursue their own grudges. They simply attack anything blue._

"Ah, but the majority of them are still in solitary," Wyoming said.

_Then get them out of solitary._

"Out of solitary? Hm. Might be manageable. The warden is rather insane."

_Exactly. Use that to your advantage._


	105. Chapter 97: Gratitude

**Chapter Ninety-Seven: Gratitude**

"I didn't hear much screaming," Tex remarked, as she prodded Church in the back with her nightstick, guiding him back to the cafeteria where dinner was being served. "Caboose didn't kill you then?"

"No. He did. I'm completely dead right now," Church said, voice perfectly deadpan. "Isn't it obvious? What with the rotting flesh, dead eyes..." He felt his arms and put on expression of mock surprise. "Oh wait."

"You're a dick."

"I know. Anyway, the 'talk' we had was over pretty quick."

"And?"

"I think I broke him. But fuck it, douchebag deserved it. Tucker still up in the infirmary?"

"I guess. Haven't seen him."

"Alright."

"And you're not gonna throw a bitch-fit about him dumping you?"

"Shut it, bitch."

"Asshole." Tex stopped just outside the cafeteria. "So, what are you gonna do? You got no protection."

"Blackmail. I know some shit about that angry guy who works in the cafeteria."

"Really? Your funeral."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, just for starters... I don't really think you should rely on a guy who gets angry if people so much as look at him wrong. I can do the job better. I'm keeping an eye on you as much as possible."

"No, you're keeping an eye on Tucker."

"Screw Tucker. Besides, I can watch both of you." Tex's fingers drummed against her nightstick. "Why do you think I chose a job here?"

"Because you were fired from the police?"

"Shut up. Because I'd rather you didn't die, thanks. Especially now, it'll flush all the hard work of keeping a rat like you alive down the crapper."

"Yeah. It's nice to know you care," Church muttered sarcastically.

* * *

"Ten minutes until curfew. Am I allowed to leave after that? The warden was a bit vague about the details," Sheila said, after checking her watch. Lopez was still sitting there. He hadn't even left to get any food.

"I think so. Doc usually left not long after curfew," Donut said. "Same with most of the trillion doctors that have gone through here. Trillion being..." Donut counted his fingers briefly. "Being four."

"Can I go back to my cell? Please? Don't leave me in the same room as him," Tucker pleaded. "I'm running out of things to talk about. And that's the only way to shut him up!"

"Sorry, you have to stay."

"Gaaaaaah."

Sheila quickly tidied up the files she'd been looking through before walking towards the door. Lopez made to follow her, but stopped about halfway. He turned and looked at Donut. Slightly frowning.

"Uh. Yes?" Donut asked. He was kind of waiting for Sheila and Lopez to leave so that he could try and walk again without getting shouted at. Lopez frowned at him some more, before turning back to Sheila.

"_I need to talk to the fruit._"

"_The... the fruit?_"

"I'm pretty sure I'm the fruit," Donut muttered. "But I have a name. Even though it's a less healthy food."

"Uh. I don't see a problem with that, I suppose. Is this private? Should I wait outside?"

"_I... would prefer that._"

"Okay. But don't take too long, Lopez, you'll get in trouble with the guards if you're out here too long." Sheila left, closing the door behind her.

"So, what's going on? I mean, uh... should I be talking in Spanish?"

"_Don't bother. You'll embarrass both of us._"

"Why are we talking about hula hoops?"

"_Just be quiet._"

"Sure. Zipping it." Donut made a zip motion across his mouth.

"How come you never listen to me when I tell you to shut up?" Tucker complained. Donut just grinned and motioned at his mouth to show that he couldn't talk. "You're a douchebag, Dye-Job. Douche. Bag."

Lopez waited until it was clear that no-one else was going to say anything more before talking.

"_O'Malley wants you dead._"

"I'm totally shocked to hear that," Donut said sarcastically.

"Aha, you spoke."

"Shut up, Tucker."

"Oh, so now I'm the one who's too chatty?"

"So, he told you this?" Donut asked Lopez.

"_No. His speech is somewhat impaired at the moment. He wrote it down for me. I don't have the paper with me. Your friend took it._"

"Caboose?"

"_Yes. I assume he never gave it to you._"

"He's in solitary. I think."

"Fuck yeah he is," Tucker muttered, crossing his arms.

"_I don't want to be attacked by that blond monkey again, so I'm going to set out what O'Malley told me for you. He wants you dead. And he asked me to do it._"

"Eep. Please don't kill me. You wouldn't do that around your wife, would you?" Donut asked nervously. Lopez shook his head.

"_No, I wouldn't. Sheila sees enough blood in her job, she doesn't need more. And I don't want to kill you._" Lopez reached up, fingers touching his throat. There were still very faint bruises there from when Caboose attacked him. "_You stopped that monkey from killing me. And you had no reason to, after I helped O'Malley send you here._"

"Oh, right. Well... I don't like people dying."

"_A murderer doesn't like people dying. Strange._"

"It was self-defence!"

"_I don't care. I don't like you. But I do owe you._"

"So, you're not gonna kill me? Awesome."

"Damn," Tucker groaned.

"_But. I've heard of the sorts of things O'Malley does. I know he's a manipulative psychopath._" Lopez reached around, pointed at the door that Sheila had just passed through. "_If I disobey him, and as a result he threatens her... then I don't care what I owe you. I will kill you. If it's to protect her, I will kill you and not regret it at all._"

Donut fiddled with his fingers a bit. "I realise I shouldn't be happy about that. And I'm not. ...But that's actually kinda sweet."

"_Right. Of course. Murder is the new flowers,_" Lopez said heavily.

"Hey, any love in this prison is awesome. Seriously, there's a lack of it. It's depressing. Need more."

"_Whatever you think. I've warned you. If Sheila ends up in danger because I didn't kill you, then I'm coming back and finishing the job. For now... you're safe. At least from me._"

"Cool. But if you're gonna kill me, can you wait until I can walk? I think the field would be more even if I wasn't confined to this bed."

"_If circumstances allow it._"

"Okay. Thanks, I guess."

Lopez turned and left. Donut heard just a little bit of conversation with Sheila before the door closed.

"Who's trying to kill you?" Tucker asked, once they were gone.

"What do you care?"

"That's been, like, my job in this prison for the past ten years. Find out as much as possible about everyone. That's just what I do, you know that."

"Why? If you're not hanging around with Church anymore then there's no point. Is there?"

Tucker blinked a few times, before settling back on his pillow. "Right. Forgot about that."

He stared at the wall for a while, looking mildly troubled. Donut watched for a while (and Tucker was so stuck in his own thoughts that he didn't notice, or he would have told Donut to stop being creepy) and shrugged before sitting up on his bunk.

Time to practice walking. The bunk was getting really painful. Donut hoped he wasn't getting bedsores or anything. He put his feet on the ground.

He managed, this time, to stay on his feet. He was wobbly, but as long as he didn't move at all he could stay standing in one place. It still ached. Maybe it would always ache, maybe it wouldn't. The only person he could ask about that was Wash, and there was no way Donut was going there.

But at least it wasn't horrible nerve-wracking pain. Not like before.

"Hell yes!" Donut yelled happily, making a triumphant gesture. "I can stand, I can—whoa!"

The waving of victorious fists had been enough to set him off-balance, and he fell over. It was enough to snap Tucker out of his thoughts.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Walking? Duh."

"That didn't look like walking. That looked like falling."

"Your face is falling."

"That makes no sense."

"Neither does your face. ...I'm tired, shut up."

* * *

Church paced his cell. It was that time between curfew and when the lights were turned off. When most prisoners did things like read books or letters. Or do anything they considered a good use of time.

Normally, during this time, Church would just pace the cell anyway. Couldn't be bothered reading. And what letters would he ever get? Who would write?

If he did anything but pace during this time, he would usually talk to Tucker or Caboose. Normally unwillingly. Both of them were, for the most part, impossible to shut up. And a lot of nights, Church had wished, more than anything, that they would somehow lose their voices and he would be left in blissful silence.

Church kept pacing. He kept pacing until the lights were eventually turned off. And even when that happened, he still kept pacing. Pacing, pacing, pacing.

It was so freaking quiet.

After a long, long time, he came to a halt. He stared through the bars at Tucker's cell. He could see the crayon drawings that were plastered all over Tucker's wall from where he was standing.

So quiet.

He looked towards Caboose' cell. He couldn't see inside it from where he was. That stupid toy pigeon was probably in there. Maybe. Or had he left it with Dye-Job? Caboose had rambled something about Donut needing it, but that'd been ages ago...

He looked towards Tucker's cell again. Normally by this time, Tucker would be asleep. If he was sleeping on his stomach, he would breathe funny. But either way, Church would be able to hear him. He couldn't hear anything now. Of course he couldn't, not unless he suddenly gained magical powers that allowed him to hear what was going on in the infirmary.

He'd always wanted it to be quiet. Now that it was quiet... now that it probably wouldn't be the same kind of noisy it'd been in the past... suddenly all that noise, from the breathing right down to the stupid conversations...

Suddenly the silence was almost unbearable. And the stupid conversations didn't seem so bad.


	106. Chapter 98: The Rules Of No Homo

**Chapter Ninety-Eight: The Rules Of No Homo**

"Can't you just go to sleep already?" Tucker groaned, hands over his face. Donut was still attempting to walk, and had been doing so for the past hour.

"I need to get practice in. I'm sure the injuries are almost healed, I just need to get used to walking again. I keep falling over." Donut rested against the wall. If he wasn't leaning on something, he'd topple over pretty quickly again. "Just go to sleep."

"I can't go to sleep, because you're thumping away like flaming next door neighbours on Viagra."

"Gross."

"And so what if you learn how to walk again quickly, anyhow? You'll be able to walk to the yard, big freaking deal."

"If I can walk, I can run. And if I can run, I can stop myself from getting stabbed to death. Duh." Donut moved one foot forwards and let go of the wall. He was wobbly, but he wasn't falling.

"Probably won't work. If fast feet was all that was needed to survive in this hole, I wouldn't be lying here with a fucking concussion, would I?" Tucker grumbled.

"Didn't say it was all I need. But it'll help." Donut took another step. That one was too much, but he managed to sit down on the cot quickly before falling over.

"Can't you just give up and wait for your stupid injuries to heal?"

"No. No giving up." Donut pushed himself back into a standing position again. "If I gave up whenever things got difficult, then I would have kicked the bucket when my roommate attacked me."

"Why couldn't he have finished the job?" Tucker muttered to himself. "Can't you try walking when I'm not here?"

Donut rested against the wall again, thinking. "I could. But you know... what's in it for me? I'll keep quiet for the night if you answer my question, though."

"Just one question?"

"Yeah."

"It's Church-related, isn't it?"

"Ah ha... sort of."

"Fuck off."

"But I'm kinda confused about something." Donut tumbled back onto his cot, watching Tucker carefully. "You keep saying you're not gay and stuff, but I've heard the rumors. I've heard about you getting tight with other inmates. If you know what I mean. Wink. Bow chicka arf arf. And so on."

"I get it."

"What's up with that?"

"Will you go to sleep if I explain?"

"I guess."

"Well, the answer's easy. It's not gay if there's no other options available. I'm not staying celibate for twenty years just because there's no boobs around. The only girls I've seen around here are Tex, South and now that Sheila chick. Tex is half-shark and South isn't much better. And Lopez would fucking strangle me if I ever came on to Sheila. Which wouldn't stop me, except that he's here all the freaking time."

"It's nice to see you have such great morals concerning married women," Donut muttered.

"Oh, bite me. Anyway, none of that works because staff-inmate relationships ain't allowed. If I actually managed to get into any staff chick's pants and someone found out, I'd be chucked in solitary, I'd probably fuck up my parole and the chick would be fired. So. Gay sex happens to be the only option. I mean, say you were stuck in a woman's only prison. Would you go without sex even if there were only chicks around?"

Donut wrinkled his nose before raising his hand. "Uh, God gave us right hands for a reason, Tucker."

"Well, yeah, if you want to be a no-scoring bitch about it. Anyway. I usually find the girlier, smaller guys. Bribe them into being on the bottom. Make sure they keep most of their clothes on. I squint a lot, make sure I don't touch their junk and I can pretend they're female."

"You are so full of bullshit."

"Look, I answered your fucking question. Now go to sleep."

Donut pulled up the sheets, went quiet for a little while. It was silent. But he couldn't help it. He kept talking. Man was not meant to stay silent. If they were meant to be quiet, they wouldn't have ears.

"So, you're fine with banging guys, right?"

"You said you'd be quiet. And it's not gay if I do. It's situational sexuality. Or some shit."

"Then what's wrong with banging Church? It's still in the prison, so apparently it counts as 'not gay.'"

"I. Don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It."

"But... but I'm curious. And this prison needs more love. Seriously. Any love. As opposed to the hating and stabbing and calling each other mean names. Where's the love, man?"

"Just shut up. Stop projecting onto me the fact that you haven't had sex in five years."

"It's got nothing to do with that!" Donut said defensively. Quietly, he added, "And it's been six. Kind of a dry spell beforehand."

"You sure? Because I think you're fucking projecting. And it's really freaking annoying. How would you like it if I said 'hey, you're friends with Caboose. Go fuck him so that I can feel better about the fact that I can't have sex with women for another ten years.'"

"I would tell you that's crazy. The guy thinks sex and wrestling are the same thing. I'd get crushed into a pancake."

"And then all my problems would be over."

"Come on... why not go for it? I mean, you're gonna be stuck here for a while, anyways..."

"That's easy! Because there's like a million reasons not to!" Tucker shouted. "Because I'm not gay! Because I hate getting into emotional relationships! Because I don't want anything holding me back once I get to parole! I don't want to stare back at this shithole and think 'hey, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to stay.' I don't want to have anything left here for me. I want this place to stay a shithole.

"But most of all? Out of all of those things, you know what would be the weirdest? Because it's not the fact that Church is a guy. It's the fact that he's Church."

"I don't get it."

"Of course you don't," Tucker muttered bitterly. "Just leave me alone, alright? Or was fucking things up with Church not enough? Do you need to fuck around with my sleeping patterns before you're satisfied?"

* * *

The next morning, Sarge trudged through the prison holding a cup of black coffee. Staring at the walls and making sure there was nothing horribly wrong with them. He didn't want Vic to come over here and discover that there was, say, a secret tunnel in the walls hidden by a large pin-up poster. No tunnels in his prison, nope. None at all.

As he plodded around, occasionally knocking his coffee mug against the walls to make sure that they were solid, he heard a voice behind him.

"Good morning, warden."

"Wyoming? Ain't you peddling your wares in the yard this morning? Better not be trying to sneak anything illegal in."

"I'm not trying to do anything of the sort. I'm simply helping keep the inmates calm by making sure they've all got their perfectly legal goods keeping them happy. Cigarettes and snack cakes and the like."

"The snack cakes is Grif, I bet. That lazy, fat bastard."

"Speaking of my business, I was curious as to whether you have any spare coffee in your office? I'd be quite willing to pay for it. There's been a large demand for coffee as of late."

"I could scrape together some coffee grinds, but you're gonna have your haggling cut out for you."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Wyoming said smoothly, falling into step behind Sarge. "How are the preparations coming for the inspection? I assume you're confident about your prison being perfectly disciplined?"

"Of course I am! The details are under wraps from you and all the other scum in this prison. But trust me, no goddarn troublemakers are gonna start anything under my nose, or they'll be fed to the electric chair."

"Oh yes, I heard that little spiel. Quite inspiring, if I do say so myself." Wyoming smiled slightly before removing a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "Smoke?"

"Don't mind if I do."

Wyoming waited for Sarge to light his cigarette before he continued. "Of course... the fact that a large section of the prison population is in solitary does put... something of a dent in your credibility."

"How so? They're in there because I'm disciplining them!"

"Of course, of course, I'm not questioning your methods. But surely it would look better if no-one was in solitary at all? That would imply that your disciplinary methods were so good that no-one behaved out of line at all. That the incidents that lead people to solitary never even take place because you're that good at preventing them."

"That so?" Sarge puffed on his cigarette for a few moments, before saying, "There are quite a lot of troublemakers down there."

"Most of which have been down there for weeks. I'm sure the discipline has taken effect. And if one of them goes, shall we say, haywire during the visit... well, it'll give your guards a chance to show off how good at dealing discipline they are. It's a win-win situation. Locked down there, what good are they doing? Not to say you don't continue the punishment, maybe pile on some extra unpaid hours of labor?"

"Well. Can't deny you got a point. Lazy bastards are doing nothing but relaxing down there in those cells anyway. They need some back breaking labor handed out to them."

"Indeed they do. Back breaking labor is quite character building," Wyoming said. He took a puff on his own cigarette, blew out the smoke gracefully. "Do you think I could also purchase your newspaper? I missed the crossword."

"Bah, the crosswords. Mind-numbing wastes of times, the lot of them. Sure you can buy it, I was just gonna shred it for my son's pet. I'm gonna get him a cobra. He wanted a hamster, but I told him that cobras are much more manly."

"Yes. That sounds absolutely safe."


	107. Chapter 99: Ritual Preparations

**Chapter Ninety-Nine: Ritual Preparations**

"Well, you don't seem to be getting any worse. I suppose you're free to leave, but you need to get plenty of rest and sleep. You're off laundry duty for the next week at least," Sheila said to Tucker, after a brief check-up.

"Great. Can I go now? Dye-Job wouldn't shut up all night..."

"I wasn't that noisy," Donut mumbled.

"Uh, you were. Seriously, record yourself sometime and play it back. Maybe then you'll realise how annoying your voice is."

"Where am I gonna find a voice recording thing in prison?"

"I dunno, just..." Tucker trailed off as he felt around for his jacket. Sheila stood there, ready to help him up if he needed it, but Tucker refused her help. Probably thought it'd be more manly to get up on his own.

Donut didn't say anything until Tucker was almost out the door. "Hey, Tucker?"

"What? What now, Dye-Job?! Is this going to be more about how I should let Church buttfuck me?! More nagging just because you can't get laid?!"

"No! And I could totally get laid, I just haven't tried."

"Sure. Sure you haven't."

"But my point is... being an ass to Church because he wants to go through your backdoor—"

"Hey, euphemisms are my job!"

"—is not cool. I've been on the bad end of the whole 'friend being a douche because I'm gay' thing, and it sucks."

"I'm not being a douche because Church apparently likes guys now. I was fine with things when I thought you were the one banging him."

"Really?" Donut raised an eyebrow. "So... if I were to hit on him..."

"Then I'd be fine with that."

"You sure?"

"Fuck yeah I'm sure."

Donut tilted his head a bit, then shook his head. "Dammit. I was thinking maybe if I tried poking at the 'jealousy' angle you might come around, but I don't think it's gonna work."

"Definitely not. You can't con me into your stupid gay games, I got a fucking master's degree in that. The conning part, not the gay part."

"Pfft. You're no fun."

"Yeah. Don't care. I'm leaving."

During the entire conversation, Sheila had just been standing there, looking a little bit annoyed at the fact that she had to listen to it, but for the most part hiding it well. Once Tucker had left, Sheila seated herself on the end of Donut's cot.

"Now. Donut, I want to ask you a question."

"Sure, go ahead."

"Why were you lying on the floor when I came in this morning?"

"Uh. That? I was... doing my morning stretches?"

"Have you been trying to walk?"

"Yeah. A little. I got shouted at for trying too often before, especially when I was around Wash. He didn't like it. I mean, he doesn't like anything. But especially not anything to do with me. He's... mean."

"Concerning your walking... I think you just need a bit of physical therapy to get your legs working properly again. I've got experience in these matters. Did something similar with Caboose after he was in that coma, and you've at least been awake and practicing so it shouldn't be nearly as difficult." Sheila tapped her chin thoughtfully a few times before climbing to her feet. "Okay. You want to try now?"

"Right now? Okay! Sooner the better, I am really sick of this ceiling. Did you know there's one hundred and seven cracks in the area above my cot?"

"That's... interesting."

"No, it's not. But it's all I had to do, because there's no books in here anymore. Doc used to have ones on Tai Chi, but they got kind of boring after a while, too."

* * *

"Freedom! We have passed our trial of isolation and lived to bask in the sunlight bestowed upon us by His Holy Flappiness!" the Red Zealot cried out upon entering the yard. There was a general murmur of agreement from the other zealots that were following him. "We are one step further from this limbo and one step closer to the Flag!"

The zealot did not notice that someone else was walking just a bit behind the group of flag worshippers. He was too focused on the red flag flapping in the breeze, and the shiny pole that it decorated.

"Now let us offer libations to His Holy Flappiness, so that he may guide our way and one day set us free of this concrete prison of trials and tribulations..."

"Perhaps that day may come sooner than you were thinking," a voice spoke up. Wyoming had followed the zealots all the way to the flag, and was now standing there, smoking a cigarette as per usual and smiling in a slightly smug way.

"You are the supplier. The bridge to items that were not bestowed upon us naturally by the Flag in this limbo. What is your business with us?"

"We share a mutual friend. A certain red-haired friend, if you catch my meaning."

"You are a... friend... of the holy flag's prophet and speaker?"

"Indeed."

"You are not one of the red ones."

"I'm... neutral in the grander scheme of things. As you said, I am merely a supplier. However, I happen to know what your, erm, prophet is planning. And what role he wants you to play in it." Wyoming glanced around at the other flag worshippers before adding, "Let us walk. Just you and me. And I will explain what he wants done."

"Why can't the prophet tell me himself?"

"He's having... speech difficulties. Consider this a test of faith, if you will."

"A test? Very well, I will listen to your words." The Red Zealot waved his hand at the others. "Continue with your worship of the flag! I will return!"

The zealot followed Wyoming until they were out of earshot of both the other followers and the guards. Then Wyoming started to talk.

"It is vital that none of this reaches the guards."

"We do not speak to the gatekeepers unless it is of the utmost necessity, supplier! Ask us to be silent and we shall be silent, provided it is the wish of His Holy Flappiness."

"Yes. You see, your prophet... he is planning an escape."

"An escape from purgatory? Do you mean to say that he is to lead us into the red-tinted haven that His Holy Flappiness promised us?" the Red Zealot asked gleefully. He had dreamed of escape ever since he was sentenced here. It seemed like he'd been there for lifetimes, though in all actuality he'd only been in purgatory for six months.

"...Yes. Oh, yes, definitely. However, it's going to be a very difficult task and will require your utmost cooperation..."

Wyoming continued to talk for a long time, sharing details of what the zealots would have to do to achieve escape. A test of faith. The final test of faith, were the Red Zealot to succeed.

"So, what do you say, chap? Are you in?"

"I follow the Flag in his almighty crimson glory. If he has set this trial for us, then we have no choice but to follow. And follow we shall with utmost devotion!" the Red Zealot declared.

"Excellent."

"But... I must warn you, supplier. If you have been taking advantage of my faith, then we will not tolerate it." The zealot tried to bring himself up to Wyoming's height, despite his status as one of the smallest inmates. "If you have been deceiving us, then we shall offer you up to the flag as an apology, and your innards shall decorate his shiny pole."

"Much like the doctor, am I correct?"

"Yes. Much like."

"That seems fair enough. But that reminds me. The prophet has one more task for you, though he wishes it to be carried out by one of your men. But it must be someone you are willing to leave behind in the escape, should he be locked in isolation for this."

"What is his demand?"

"Another doctor has arrived. She must be dealt with. This is particularly important to him, as part of a... safeguard for if the escape fails. A... sacrifice to appease the Flag in case of failure, if you will."

"We will not fail."

"But if you do? In any case, I'm sure it would curry favour with... His Holy Flappiness."

"I see. We shall have a sacrifice!"

"Yes. But..." Wyoming briefly paused, making a motion with his hand like he was counting. "Wait two days. It's important to the prophet... for some reason."

"He works in mysterious ways."

"Yes. Mysterious."

* * *

Tucker walked slowly. Moving too fast gave him a headache at the moment. The entire time, he was wary. To be honest, walking around by himself made him nervous. He wasn't exactly well-liked in this hellhole. What with all the conning and blackmailing. And now that he had no protection, well... it made one feel rather vulnerable to screwdrivers being stuck in one's back.

As he considered how many people would probably enjoy stabbing him (Miller at the top of the list) he neared his cell. He wanted a nap, although how well he'd be able to sleep was up in the air. When he got closer, however, he saw movement in Caboose's cell.

That was not comforting. Wasn't Caboose supposed to be locked up in solitary? What was he doing back out here? Was he going to attack again? Tucker edged a bit closer, trying to see what Caboose was doing.

He was just curled up on his cot, face hidden in his arms. Kind of looked like he was taking a nap, except that he kept fidgeting. Something seemed off about the whole thing. He wasn't clinging onto his pigeon, for one.

When Tucker made to move back again, Caboose must have heard him. Because he looked up. Tucker froze, although he wasn't sure what good freezing would do if Caboose decided to try and kill him again. Running would make more sense. But Caboose didn't try to attack. He didn't even climb off his cot. He just stared. His eyes were red. He'd obviously been crying. After a long stretch of staring, he just covered his face again. No attack. No evil glare. Not even his usual cheerful greeting of 'hello, stupid Tucker.'

"He won't attack you," a voice muttered. Church had been lurking around in his cell, and was now sticking his head out.

"Yeah? What makes you so damn sure?" Tucker snapped, making sure not to look at Church.

"Because I said so, alright? I talked to him, and he ain't doing shit anymore. No protection. But none of you dying. You're welcome, by the way."

"Fuck you, I didn't ask for you to shove your nose in."

"Yeah? Well, too bad." Church retreated back into his cell, so that Tucker couldn't see him.

Tucker plodded back to his cot, as well. Pulled the thin sheets over himself, tried to sleep. And he was really tired, but it was impossible. He couldn't quite put his finger on why it was so difficult, but it definitely had something to do with the intense awkwardness in the air.

It almost made him miss the infirmary. ...Almost.


	108. Chapter 100: Cycle

**Chapter One Hundred: Cycle**

As good a smuggler as Wyoming was, it was inevitable that he would be caught sometimes. It was difficult to transfer goods to other inmates without running into a guard. Sometimes they would let him go. Most of the guards knew what Wyoming did, and just let it go because it was usually harmless things like cigarettes.

But Wash? He never let anything get past him, if he could help it. Even if it was harmless. Because if he let one thing get past him, and word spread... it ruined the fear he had going in the inmates.

"Are you smuggling illegal items into the cells again?"

Wyoming grinned at him. He was holding a small bundle of dirty laundry, he'd been carrying it past the cells until Wash stopped him. "I don't know what you're blathering about, Washington."

"Don't insult me by playing dumb. What's in the laundry pile? Unfold it, show me."

Wyoming didn't move, simply kept a friendly smile on his face. The smile was not improving Wash's mood. "Now, Washington. Would you deny an old man his small and slightly stupid pleasures? It's merely a bottle of whiskey. Unorthodox, yes, but surely no harm will come from it. That's not enough to get even one man drunk. Just a small celebration. My grand-niece happens to be graduating from high school today."

"Yeah? You have a grand-niece now? Last month it was your nephew getting promoted, the month before that your daughter was having a baby. If I was an idiot, maybe I'd believe you. But I have a brain. Now unfold your laundry pile."

Wyoming made a tutting noise before placing the pile of clothes on the ground. "Feel free to search through them yourself. Although I'd prefer that you don't spend too much time on the undergarments. Or else I might suspect there's another purpose behind these searches. Yes."

"Shut up."

Wash started going through the laundry. He didn't spend much time on each piece, just enough time to confirm that there were no weapons taped to them. It was silent until...

"I quite like you, Washington," Wyoming said cheerfully.

"It's not mutual," Wash muttered.

"You remind me rather of me in my youth."

"And that's just insulting." Wash located the bottle of whiskey Wyoming had mentioned and put it to the side. "I'm confiscating the whiskey."

"Ah, I suspected that you would. But as I was saying. You're very similar to how I was. For starters, you're a rather handsome fellow."

Wash lowered the handful of dirty laundry he was holding and shut his eyes wearily. "Please don't say you're hitting on me."

Wyoming chuckled before continuing. "You are very, very stern about your duty. You are feared by many of the inmates, but most of all... you're a cruel man. You're a cruel man who pretends to be on the just side of the law, but who oversteps his bounds all too much. You do spend a lot of time injuring the prisoners, don't you? Attacking them in solitary, where no-one that matters can hear them scream and yell for help... Tell me, do you do it for a reason? Do you have some deep-seated anger issues? Or are you just doing it for the fun of it?"

"None of your business, and if you keep—"

"If I keep annoying you, you'll beat me up. You're a little too quick to resort to violence, aren't you? You're cruel, Washington. Too cruel. Now, I fully endorse finding amusement wherever possible, especially in a dull job like guarding murderous psychopaths. But you're not careful enough. I've heard from multiple sources about you being... shall we say, rough."

Wash stopped shuffling through the laundry. He knew that listening to Wyoming was a stupid idea... but the man had a creepy sort of charisma. Wash blamed the accent.

"I hear the whispers, Washington. The rumours. Sometimes the blatant accusations that you're a fruit loop. And I've heard it all before. Because I was the same. When I was young, when I was still but a young, foolish and sadistic prison guard... I was perhaps one of the bigger dangers to the inmates. I was cruel for the fun of it. I beat some of them rather badly. Others, well..." Wash heard Wyoming step closer. "Let's just say the ones who got severely beaten were the lucky ones. I did these things, and kept doing them, and thought it was fine. Because they were just criminal scum. Who would care? And more importantly... they were afraid of me. So I got careless and complacent because I thought no-one would dare rat me out."

Wyoming reached out and grasped Wash's shoulder. "Let me tell you something, my friend. They would dare. They would. It's already happening to you. Your cruelties are already well-known even through simple rumors. One day... one day there will be enough proof even for Sarge, blind-sighted idiot that he is.

"And when that day comes..." Wyoming let out a small chuckle. "They won't just fire you. How do you think I wound up in here to begin with? It won't matter how you justified it, how much you claim you were merely servicing society. They will strip you of your uniform and replace it with a faded orange jumpsuit. And the inmates... oh, they will enjoy taking out their hatred of overly cruel guards out on you. Oh, how they'll enjoy it."

"Are you done?" Wash muttered icily.

"Nearly. My final point? I doubt they'll let you have a night light in your cell."

Wash's eyes widened slightly, and he turned around. He was holding the confiscated bottle of whiskey. "How do you know about that?"

"A little birdie told me. He also told me a great many things about your past. Very interesting. You know, I'm sure there are certain people who would love to hear that little story. Perhaps York would like to hear some tales about you and his wife working together—"

Wash almost hit Wyoming right then. He had his fist raised before he realised what he was doing, and lowered it again.

"Don't. You. Dare. If you even think about it, I'll—" Wash was interrupted by Wyoming holding up his hand to quiet him.

"That's what I was referring to, Washington. Keep that temper in check. Wouldn't want to get in trouble, now would we? Now, I'm going to be busy for a few days. I would appreciate it if you didn't interfere with my business for a while." Wyoming's smile was still there, but it was significantly colder. "If you do interfere, I'll spill the beans to your friend. And if you try to silence me permanently..." Wyoming gazed at him. It felt like he was staring right through him. "Well. I'm not afraid of that. Because you, dear Washington, are nothing but the dumb, sadistic kid I used to be. And you're going to end up following the same footsteps I did."

He turned around and strolled off, as if he was walking through a sunlit park rather than past a row of cells, leaving the pile of laundry behind.

Wash just stood there, frowning and thinking. It was garbage. But the words kept looping in his head. He was still standing there when Sarge appeared next to him.

"Washington? Why in sam hell are you standing here holding whiskey? And why is there a pile of laundry here? Take that upstairs, dump it with the rest."

"Yes sir."

"Excellent. I'll take the whiskey off your hands. Uh. For evidence purposes. Yes. This whiskey is going straight to the evidence locker." Sarge unscrewed the lid and took a sip. "Just checking it for poison first."

"Right. Poison. Sure."

* * *

"It feels like a horror movie. We're all dropping off one by one," Grif said, looking around. Church mumbled something under his breath in reply before going back to poking with his food. Grif kept staring for a moment longer. First at where Donut usually sat. Then at Caboose's place. Then at Tucker's regular seat. "There's only three of us left. I bet Simmons is going down next, he hasn't been seriously injured lately."

Simmons rolled his eyes. "This isn't a horror movie. None of the others are dead. Donut's the only one even in the infirmary. Tucker's napping, and Caboose is just being mopey. Besides, if any of us are gonna be the next 'victim,' it's gonna be Church."

"Yeah?" Church looked up from his food, scowling. "I'm gonna be next, huh? How do you figure?"

"Logic says you're completely screwed."

"Again. How?"

"Okay, you're apparently an idiot. How to explain..." Simmons felt his jacket pockets and pulled out the deck of cards he and Grif normally played with. "I'd use a chess metaphor, but I've got no pieces. So..." Simmons quickly shuffled through the cards and picked out the king of aces. "Let's just pretend this is a chess king."

Church normally would have already told Simmons to shut up and stop annoying him with his garbage. But... anything to fill the silence. "Okay?"

Simmons pushed his tray aside, arranged some cards on the table. Once he'd finished, the cards were in a similar position to the pieces of a chess board. "Now, in chess terms... I guess you're the king." He poked the king of aces. "I mean, you got a big hold on this prison most of the time. Enough to blackmail people and not get beat up for it. But that's only because you got all the other pieces doing the work for you. By himself, the king is absolutely useless. You only made it this far because..." Simmons frowned and tapped his finger on the queen of aces. "Hm. Would the queen be Tucker or Caboose?"

"Considering the whole gay vibe, I'd say Tucker," Grif put in.

"Oh god, shut up about Tucker," Church grumbled. "How do you guys even know about that?"

"Well. I kinda have eyes," Grif said.

"Thing is, Tucker hasn't been that useful since the whole Jones thing," Simmons said, completely ignoring the gay part of the conversation. "Everyone knows he's a con artist, he only ever gets information out of the new guys. And the queen is the strongest piece, so it'd really fit Caboose more." He tapped the queen a couple more times before saying, "Doesn't seem right to make Caboose the queen, though, so... Okay. Tucker's the queen, we'll say Caboose is the rook."

"Why is Caboose a bird?"Grif asked.

"That's the castle, stupid."

"Oh."

"Anyhow. While the king is surrounded by the other pieces, he's fine. Because the queen can jump all over the board and take out a bunch of people, and the rooks just plow through everything. And the rest of the pieces catch anything else, so very little gets close enough to screw you over. But say the queen threw a bitch fit at the king and the rook went crazy and attacked the queen because he thought he... or she, whatever... was a traitor..."

"Dude, are we even still playing chess?"

"Shut up, Grif. Anyhow, the fallout from that basically knocks the queen and the rook out of the game. And since the queen was helping blackmail the other pieces into not attacking the king..."

"Pawns can't attack their own king, Simmons."

"Grif, stop poking holes in my metaphor!"

"What? Your metaphor makes no sense! You're using playing cards! You suck at chess!" Grif protested.

Church had been sitting there, listening while at the same time wondering why the fuck he was listening to them argue in the first place. "Is there a point to this? Or are you just wasting my fucking time?"

"Right. Well... basically, you got no more pieces left. And there are a lot of people out there who can see your chess board, you know? They know that the pieces are all gone. In other words, if one of them decided to move their own pieces..." Simmons flicked the king of aces aside. "Checkmate."

"You're using playing cards. That kinda ruins the effect," Grif mumbled.

"And that's why you're screwed. Because everyone wants to punch you in the face—including me—and there's nothing to stop anyone from doing it. Except maybe Tex. You've still got a bishop."

"That's a jack of spades."

"Shut up, Grif."

"Why couldn't you have just said that everyone hates me instead of using your stupid chess metaphor?" Church groaned.

"Shut up."

"Are you venting your frustration at the fact that your old man never let you join the school chess club?" Grif asked.

"He said football was what real men played," Simmons grumbled. "He was kinda stuck on me being an athlete."

"Ah. Nerd denial."

"Yeah..."

"So, okay. I'm screwed, then," Church said. "How do I stop myself from getting punched in the face, huh?"

"What? I'm not telling you that," Simmons said incredulously. "I'm gonna be in line to deliver a fist to your face for blackmailing me about... you know."

"About '2.0'?"

"Not out loud!"

"And also for blackmailing you into giving you pruno using Sister's... habits... as leverage," Grif said. He grinned. "Can't do that anymore. Sister's given it up because of the pregnancy. At least, that's what she said. Anyway, only reason I haven't smashed your face into a wall is Caboose. And he might as well be in a coma for all he's doing at the moment."

"Mm. Right." Church rubbed his forehead. He could feel a stress headache building. He probably should have found another way to deal with Caboose. One that didn't stop the protection. "What do I have to do to stop you guys from beating me up?"

Simmons drummed his fingers against the table. "You could help us with something."

"What?"

"O'Malley. We gotta get rid of him. And any help from Tucker or Caboose that we might have got has probably gone out the window now. How do we kill him?"

"Oh god, not this again." Church rubbed his forehead some more. "Will you stop annoying me if I help?"

"Sure."

"And no punching in the face?"

"I guess."

"Okay, fine. I'll help with whatever you're doing. It'll... It'll give me something to do, I guess."


	109. Chapter 101: Girly Laps

**Chapter One-Hundred And One: Girly Laps**

"Someone should have helped you with this before," Sheila muttered. She was holding Donut's arm firmly, making sure he could keep his balance. "You would have been walking earlier if you'd gotten some assistance."

"Really? I kept getting shouted at for trying."

"Shouting is no way to help someone. I'm going to let go of your arm now." Sheila let go, and Donut didn't fall over.

It had been two days since Sheila had first started helping him with walking. Already it was much easier. For the most part, Donut could actually stay on his feet. As long as he moved slowly, anyway. Sometimes Donut would still lose his balance and fall over, but Sheila was always nearby to stop him from hitting the ground. It was a lot less painful than trying by himself.

"Now, try walking across the infirmary and back without falling. Okay?"

"Okay." Donut started walking across the room at about the same pace as a turtle. "If I manage getting around the room, can I leave?"

"Leave? Hm, I don't know about that. You're still slow and unsteady."

"I know, but practice makes perfect. And Mama Julie always said that the best way to teach someone to swim was to throw them in the deep end of the pool."

"That sounds rather dangerous."

"She never literally did that. She just said it. ...Although, I already knew how to swim when I was adopted, so she never really had the chance. I don't think she would haaaaaah—" Donut wobbled, but managed to grab the wall before he fell over. "Whew."

"See, you're still unbalanced. Give it another day."

"But I'm so sick of the ceiling... And I'm sure you'd like some time alone with Lopez." Every day, Lopez showed up just a little after working hours ended. He still wouldn't be there for a couple more hours, but he'd show up. And whenever he was there, he looked annoyed at Donut's constant presence. "I kinda feel like a third wheel when he's around. I hate being a third wheel. Especially on straight dates. So awkward."

"While I would love some time alone with him, my duty as a doctor comes first," Sheila said firmly. "And you're not fit to be leaving yet."

"But all that's really broken is my gaydar... and you said you couldn't fix that."

"You're not leaving."

"Okay, I didn't want to play this card, but... If I don't get permission to leave, I will have to subject you to hours upon hours of asking if I can leave yet. 'Can I leave yet? Can I leave yet? Can I leave yet?' And so on."

"That's a nasty trick, Donut."

"Yeah... But it works. Or I could talk about interior design for hours."

"That won't work on me." As Donut wobbled a bit, Sheila reached out to grab his shoulder, helping him to regain his balance. "But if you can make... let's say, five laps around the infirmary without falling once, I'll let you leave. That should be enough to prove you can get around by yourself."

"Deal."

Without Sheila's help, Donut made it about five feet before falling over.

"That was practice. Doesn't count. Can I try again?" Donut asked from the floor.

"I'll let you try once more. Do you need help getting up?"

"I'm fine. Just give me a minute." Donut rolled onto his side. From where he was lying, he could see underneath his cot.

He noticed something wedged underneath the mattress. Something gray and fuzzy. He crawled over, stuck his hand in and pulled the object out. It was Caboose's stuffed pigeon.

Donut wondered how it'd gotten stuck there. He did vaguely recall it being on his cot the first time he'd woken up after O'Malley's attack, but it'd vanished after that. He had assumed Caboose had taken it with him when he was let out of the infirmary. Seemed he'd been wrong.

The pigeon was slightly dusty, Donut brushed it off quickly and placed it back on the cot. Had to remember not to lose it again, so he could return it to Caboose. The last thing this prison needed was more dead pigeons being kept in cells. The smell would be terrible.

Then he climbed back to his feet, using the cot for support, and went back to walking around the infirmary.

* * *

Half an hour later, Donut fell over again.

"Oh, come on! That was almost five laps. See?" Donut stretched out his arm, trying to reach his cot from his current position on the floor. He was about a foot away. "That was close, come on."

"Well, it wasn't quite there. But... I suppose it was fairly close." Sheila helped Donut up. "But if I let you out, you have to promise to stick close to the walls for support. And if you're having too much trouble or you injure yourself, come back. ...Oh, and you probably shouldn't be put back on laundry duty for now. Especially with all the irons, falling onto one of those would be unpleasant. It just doesn't seem safe to let prisoners near irons, to begin with, but..." Sheila shrugged. "Are you certain you want to leave?"

"Yes. Very yes. Seriously yes. I'll be fine. O'Malley's still in the other infirmary, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be fine. Besides... I seriously need a shower. I really do smell like a garbage heap."

"Very well. Let me help you to the door."

"Okay. Oh, wait, lemme grab Caboose's pigeon first. ...Okay, now I'm ready."

Once Donut was out of the infirmary, he felt like doing some sort of happy victory dance. He would have, except that probably would have made him fall over again and he didn't want to fall over while he was still in front of the infirmary. It'd be embarrassing.

Shuffling towards the cell block was awesome. After almost a month on a cot or just walking in circles, actually going somewhere was awesome. He could feel the metaphorical wind in his hair.

He didn't see anyone. The prison was usually close to empty during this part of the day, since most were working in the laundry room or the kitchen or wherever. However, when Donut rounded a corner, right where the cells began, he walked straight into someone.

"Oof! Sorry about that!" Donut said, as he grabbed onto the wall to steady himself. He dropped the stuffed pigeon in the process. The man picked it up before Donut could move. Donut couldn't remember the man's name, but he knew he'd seen him around. Where had it been... it'd been in the yard, he was sure of that. But that didn't help much, every inmate was in the yard at some point.

The man looked down at the pigeon for a moment, turning it over in his hands, before handing it back to Donut. "No need to apologise, cleanser of fabric."

It was during those last three words that it clicked. Donut knew who he was. He was one of the guys who worshiped the flag. Not the one who had attacked Walter, but one of the others. Donut shuffled backwards nervously, holding the stuffed pigeon tightly. The zealot frowned at him.

"You should not be scared of us. We only do the work of the flag, my Red brother. We are not a danger to you." He turned around and left.

His assurance that Donut was in no danger wasn't comforting at all. Donut wondered why the zealot was wandering around by himself. They normally traveled around in a pack.

Donut shrugged before he started shuffling towards his cell. It wasn't any of his business what those crazy zealots did. Whatever it was, he just didn't want to know about it.

It took so long for Donut to get near his cell that the bell signalling the end of working hours went off. It wouldn't be long before the cells were swarming with the inmates who weren't interested in hanging around the yard. But for now, they were still almost empty.

But there were still a couple of people around. When Donut passed by Tucker's cell, Tucker was messing around with his wall of crayon drawings. A bunch of them had fallen down, and he was currently trying to stick them back onto the wall.

"Your kid sure does draw a lot," Donut said, peering through the bars.

"Dammit, and here I thought I'd escaped your stupid conversations," Tucker muttered. "And Junior doesn't draw much any more." He nodded his head at the drawings on the right. Unlike the others, they were done in pencil. There were a lot less of them than of the crayon drawings. "Don't you have someone else to annoy?"

"No. Grif and Simmons would be in the laundry room or getting lunch, one or the other. And Caboose is in solitary."

"Actually, he's moping around in his cell."

"Really? They let him out that soon?"

"Weird thing, that. Pretty much everyone in solitary got let out. Not really sure why. Don't care that much." Tucker shrugged, before adding, "Can you piss off already?"

"Fine. You're more of a grump than Church."

"No-one's that grumpy."

Donut shuffled over to Caboose's cell and peered in, still holding onto the stuffed pigeon. Caboose had his sheets pulled over his head, so Donut couldn't see anything but a huge grey lump.

"Caboose? Why are you wearing sheets over your head?"

The grey lump turned towards him, or at least Donut assumed it was facing him, but it didn't say anything.

"Is this a new game? Are we playing ghosts? Or blanket monsters?" Donut edged in, sat down at the foot of the cot. "Caboose? Come on, the silence is creeping me out." He tugged the sheet off Caboose's head. "...Ergh. Your eyes are totally bloodshot. Ick. What's going on?"

Caboose opened and closed his mouth a few times, before shaking his head.

"Come on, Caboose. You can talk to me. Use your words, come on." Donut reached out to touch his shoulder, but Caboose edged away. "That bad?"

Caboose nodded.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

There was a pause, before Caboose shook his head.

"Okay then." Donut shuffled closer, settled down next to Caboose. "Take your time. I'll be ready to listen when you're ready to talk."

Several minutes of silence went by. Occasionally Caboose would move like he was about to speak, but no sound would ever come out. The silence went on for so long that Donut almost nodded off twice, tired from the effort of walking down to the cells. After the second time, Donut noticed that he was still holding Caboose's pigeon.

"Oh. Uh, you can have this back. Sorry I kept it for so long." Donut handed it over to Caboose. Caboose blinked a couple of times, petting the pigeon absently. "Might be a little dusty, but it's still nice and fluffy. Just might make you sneeze a..."

Donut trailed off, watching Caboose. He was staring down at the pigeon, eyes wide. Then he suddenly flung the pigeon away, covered his face and started crying uncontrollably.

"Caboose? No, no, no, don't cry!" Donut tried to hug him, tried to comfort him in some way, but Caboose jerked away whenever Donut touched him. "What's wrong? Why are you..."

"Why are you still pretending?!" Caboose screamed. Donut jumped back. He'd not been expecting that.

"Pretending?"

"Why are you still pretending to believe me? Why are you still there?"

"I asked if you wanted me to stay. I can go, if you want. I just wanted to know what was wrong. That's all. I don't like seeing you sad... I want you to be okay, and you're... you're so not okay." Donut moved forward again, but Caboose put out a hand to stop him. Those bloodshot eyes were staring at him, tears trickling out of them.

"That... that..." Caboose swallowed, before shaking his head. "No. No, I... I do want you to stay. But you... you should not waste your time pretending. Church wasted... he wasted lots of years pretending. And all I did was make things bad. I do not want to make things bad for you! Not again!"

"You don't make things bad for me!"

"I broke your leg."

"Well, yeah, a little bit... but... hey, I thought we were going to pretend that never happened."

"See? Pretending. You are pretending. Just like... just like Church said he..." Caboose let out a low whine before covering his face again. "And... and when I kept saying 'they fell over, it was not my fault, do not be silly, I would not ever do... something like... that...'" His speech dissolved into sobbing again.

"No, I... I believed you," Donut lied automatically. An odd choking sound came from Caboose. It took a few seconds for Donut to realise it had been a laugh. The sort of laugh that was really hard to distinguish from the sobs.

"If you... if you really believed that they fell over... then you are stupider than I am," Caboose said bitterly. "Church was... he was right. I am the tractor. And you are just not saying it because you were scared, because I... I make things bad, and they end up crushed and hurt and... and dead... just because I got angry. Just like Apples! Just like... just like Mama..."

"Just like... wait, your mother? You..."

"She really did fall. The stairs, she... she fell down them." Caboose peered out through his fingers at Donut. "But I... I think I made her."

Donut had been reaching out to try and pat Caboose on the shoulder again. But when Caboose said that, he stopped and withdrew his hand.

He'd suspected that something bad had happened between Caboose and his mother. He tended to get kind of touchy about the subject, sometimes. But... Donut hadn't thought it was like that. He thought maybe his mother just hadn't taken Caboose being locked up well. But...

A large part of Donut wanted to back away, or shout, or do something along those lines. Because he just couldn't believe Caboose could do that. Even taking Caboose's mental condition into consideration... Donut couldn't understand why anyone would kill their mother. Because just trying to figure that out brought Mama Liz and Mama Julie to mind. And... how could Donut even conceive the idea of doing the same thing?

Caboose had seen Donut withdraw his hand. "You are scared. You... you should be. That is the non-stupid thing to do."

"I'm..." Donut just found he couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't want to think about the murders. Because he couldn't tell Caboose that was okay. He did want Caboose to be okay again, but he couldn't... couldn't just tell Caboose that murdering people was okay.

Donut sat there for a long time, listening to Caboose go back to covering his face and crying. His mind turned to the other question. Why had Caboose snapped? Why now?

He'd heard enough to know it had something to do with Church. Something that Church had said.

"Caboose. I... I have to go. But I'll be back. You... I..." Donut still couldn't find words, so he just repeated what he already had. "I'll be back. Promise."

Caboose didn't say anything as Donut left.


	110. Chapter 102: Mindfucked

**Chapter One-Hundred And Two: Mindfucked**

"Seriously, we gotta stop plotting in the laundry room," Simmons said. "Too many guards. I thought York heard us at one point."

"Oh, it's fine. You worry too much," Grif said.

"Do not, fatass."

Church only vaguely listened to Grif and Simmons arguing behind him, as he walked back to the cells. It was something to fill the silence with, along with this whole 'getting O'Malley' thing. Church had to admit, getting rid of O'Malley was something that would have been on his list for ages, were it not for his 'no killing' rule. (As long as Grif and Simmons did the killing, he wasn't breaking that, right?) But why'd they have to go back to the cells to try and figure this out? Church just didn't want to be there at the moment.

When he turned the corner, he saw Donut. He was moving extremely slowly and using the cell bars for support as he walked along. He was staring directly at Church.

"Hey! Donut, I thought you couldn't walk," Grif said. Donut stayed focused on Church.

"Church. Can I talk to you for a second?"

Church didn't like the tone Donut was using. It was very quiet. It didn't sound like Donut. Something was off. Church walked forward, came to a stop in front of Donut.

"What the fuck do you want, then?"

Donut was wobbling a bit. He pushed against the cell bars, straightening himself. He shook for a few seconds more before managing to stand properly.

And then he pulled back his fist and punched Church square in the jaw.

"Gah! What the fu—"

"What the fuck did you say to him?!" Donut shouted. Every word, he attacked with his fists. And even though his legs weren't working that well, his fists were working just fine. Which, for Church, was unfortunate.

"Should we do something?" Simmons muttered.

"Well. Enjoying the moment is an option," Grif said cheerfully.

"What the... hey, stop hitting me! I don't even know what you're—alright, this is fucking ridiculous." Church took three large steps backwards. Donut, still angrily waving his fists, lost his balance and fell over. Church stepped forward again, stared down at Donut.

"Okay, seriously. What the fuck?"

"What did you say to Caboose? What did you do to him?!" Donut growled. "And if you don't tell me, I'll... I'll punch you again!"

"Oh yeah, I'm terrified," Church muttered, nudging Donut in the shoulder with his boot. At the same time, he rubbed his jaw where Donut had punched him. It was surprisingly painful. "Man, you're violent. What, trying to pick up Caboose's slack or something?"

"What the fuck did you do to him?!"

"Didn't do anything. It was more like... I was undoing something." Church quickly wondered whether to tell Donut what he'd done to Caboose. Really, he could have just left Donut lying there in the cells. It wasn't like Donut was actually a danger to him.

But to be honest, those punches had really hurt, and he didn't want the fruitcake attacking him again once his legs were better. Church no longer had anyone to stand between him and the punches, after all.

Church pondered for a few more moments, before looking back at Grif and Simmons. "Look, this isn't exactly something I wanna explain to you guys, as well. So piss off."

"But I want to see Donut hit you again. That was awesome," Grif said.

"You're not gonna hit Donut back or anything, are you?" Simmons asked suspiciously.

"No. If I want to stop him, I just have to take a few steps backwards."

"Point taken. Okay, we're going."

"Speak for yourself, Simmons."

"Just come on." Simmons dragged Grif away. Church watched until they'd vanished from sight, before sitting down on the floor next to Donut.

"Having trouble getting up?"

"Fuck you."

"Yeah, you're getting more violent. This prison's rubbing off on you. It was only a matter of time." Church waited until Donut had managed to get back into a sitting position. "So... you're upset about Caboose?"

"Of course I am! Have you... have you seen the guy?!"

"Uh, yeah. Duh."

"So? What'd you do to him? And how do I fix it?"

"I told you, I didn't do anything. I just undid something."

"Fine! What'd you undo then?!"

"Jeez, are you trying to make me deaf? Stop screaming. We're getting weird enough looks just sitting here, you don't need to scream." Donut didn't say anything, he just glared at Church. "So, you want to know what I 'did' to him, right?"

"I want to know what you did. And how to fix it."

"I can answer the first bit, at least. Basically... well, when he came into this dump, he wasn't that deluded. An idiot, sure. Maybe not completely in reality, but he still had one foot in it. He knew that he'd killed people. Thing was, because of that... he couldn't get over the murders he'd done. Carrying too much guilt with him."

Church could recall it like it was yesterday. He'd been hanging around with Tucker, when suddenly Tucker had ducked behind him and pointed out the giant blond man wandering around, mumbling something about how once he'd slept with a couple of the guy's sisters and how now he thought he might get beat up. Church had ignored this and approached Caboose, figuring the guy might be good protection. He'd talked to Caboose, but Caboose had just stared blankly at him before turning around and leaving.

"He'd sort of just given up, I think. Didn't eat, didn't talk, didn't bother to defend himself in fights... he'd just stopped caring what happened. And one of the most dangerous things you can do in this place is stop caring. Seen it before. No-one lasts long once that happens.

"Anyhow, a lot of shit happened. But basically, how I got Caboose to snap out of it... well. It took a lot of lying. Idea actually came from this guy I once knew, guy named Gary... basically, if you tell someone something, and keep telling them that often enough and long enough... eventually they'll come to believe it."

Church wrinkled his nose. He remembered when Gary had used that technique. He hadn't been in the room, but he'd been able to hear it through the floorboards sometimes. He'd heard Gary using that technique on Wash. Telling him a lot of things like how the Director's men weren't even looking for him because he was useless... that he was pathetic for getting caught... that he should have been able to stop Carolina's death... Lots of things. Church had hated Gary's 'methods of torture.' Though not as much as O'Malley's, the physical torture was much worse.

"The guilt was what was causing Caboose problems, so... I told him lies to get rid of it. First off, I told him 'the murders were probably just accidents.' Kept enforcing the parts of the murders that made it sound like an accident. Or that the people he killed were clearly asking for it, that they attacked him first, that it was kill or be killed. Then I just added more lies that said they were accidents that he didn't cause... Just lies, lies, lies.

"Once I was done, I was basically telling him 'no, you're innocent, you never did anything.' And the thing with Caboose is he was enough of a fucking idiot to believe it." Donut was listening, but his eyes were wide. He looked disturbed. "At that point, he was under the impression that he was completely innocent, that those people... his mother in particular... had just fallen over and died by themselves. And that I was the only one who believed him. The end result? He was no longer suffering guilt, and I had a bodyguard who thought I was the greatest person ever."

"That's why he thinks you're his best friend? Because you... you... mindfucked him?!"

"Yeah, pretty much. But it's the only reason he's still alive now."

Donut twisted his hands in his hair, looking revolted. "That's... god, that's sick. So... you tricked him into believing he was innocent... and when you said you 'undid' something..."

"Undid the lies. Even with all I'd told him... he still knew the truth, deep down. I'd just made it so it was possible to ignore. Why do you think he freaks out around O'Malley?" Church scowled. "O'Malley got the truth out of him long before I had a chance to mess around with it. O'Malley manipulated that guilt, used it to make Caboose do stuff. That's why Caboose is so afraid of him, because he can't ignore what he actually did when that sick bastard is around. And O'Malley is... familiar... with the method I'd used. But I was the one who fed him all those lies. It... It was easy to get through to him."

"Ugh." Donut shook his head. "That's just... ugh. Okay. How do I fix him?"

"No fucking clue. I don't think he'll believe the whole 'you're really innocent' thing again." Church shrugged. "I don't know how to fix him. He's probably broken for good this time. I'd give him a few weeks."

"A few—you sick fuck!" Donut pulled himself back to his feet again. "God, I... god! I knew you were a jerk, but... oh god! Even for you, this is... ugh." Donut shuddered. "Yeah, okay. He tried to attack Tucker. But he was doing that to protect you, that's no reason to... I don't even want to look at you right now!"

"Hey, I'm a criminal. What did you expect me to be? Nice? A fluffy motherly person? Not fucking happening."

"Well, I'm gonna find a way to fix him. And I'm not gonna do it by... ugh. I'm gonna make him happy. Because, unlike you, I'm not a mindfucking jerkass."

"Give it time. But yeah, sure. You're gonna make him feel better? Sure. You'll manage that in a completely honest way with no lies whatsoever. Also, pigs will fly and Sarge will become competent at his job."

"Shows what you know," Donut muttered.


	111. Chapter 103: Piggyback

**Chapter One-Hundred And Three: Piggyback**

"Oh, you've got to be... where'd he go?!" Donut groaned, staring into Caboose's empty cell. "How'd he even leave without me seeing him?"

"There's more than one way out of the cell block," Grif pointed out. "He wasn't there when we got here."

"Crap. Crap. Crap." Donut kept staring into Caboose's cell, as if Caboose was just going to materialize or reveal that he'd just been hiding under the cot. Not that Caboose could hide under the cot, he was too big. He'd left his stuffed pigeon behind, it was just lying there on the cot. After a few more seconds, Donut turned around and walked into Grif's cell. Very slowly. Grif was sprawled on his cot, Simmons was sitting on the end of it. "So, you don't know where he went?"

"No clue."

"Aw, man. Looking for him is gonna be a bitch. And he'll probably run off. No way I'm gonna be able to catch him." Donut looked down at his legs, then up at Grif. "Think I could get a piggyback around while I look for him?"

"Fuck no."

"Please?"

"Donut, you're asking Grif to willingly do something that involves physical effort. I don't think it's going to happen," Simmons said.

"Can I get a piggyback from you, then?"

"Hell no."

"What's your excuse, then?"

"Besides the fact that I don't want to? I know you've got the build of a sixteen-year-old girl, but I can't really carry even that." Simmons shrugged, before adding, "I have personal experience with trying to get Sister out of the kitchen while she's high on things. Was bad at that, too."

"Heh. Wuss."

"Shut up, Grif."

"So, you won't even do it as a favour for a friend?"

"No. Don't owe you shit."

Donut pondered for a few long moments, before taking a deep breath. "Okay. Then my offer is... if you carry me around until I find Caboose, then... then I'll wash your underwear for a week, free of charge."

"Ew, gross," Simmons said.

"I know..."

Donut had washed underwear before, obviously, during his small business of washing clothes for inmates. But underwear were always the worst. And considering it was Grif? Well... washing Grif's underwear was a task meant only for the bravest of laundry-washing people.

"You're that desperate to find him?" Grif asked, grinning.

"Yeah, I'm... I'm just kind of scared of what he'll do if left by himself."

"Huh. Guess that makes sense," Grif said. "...Make it two weeks."

"Fine. Deal?"

"Deal." Grif climbed to his feet. "Need to find him right now?"

"Right now." However, when Donut got too close Grif stepped back, covering his nose. "What?"

"Gross. When was the last time you had a shower, seriously?"

"You're lecturing me about showering?! You?!" Donut complained.

"What can I say? Even I have standards. And you smell like a garbage dump. I'm not giving you a piggyback until you get a shower. I mean, if I carry you around, then the stink will get on me. And I'll have to have a shower as well, and I try to do that only once a week. You'll ruin it."

"But... Caboose..."

"If it makes you feel any better, I doubt Caboose is going to harm anyone at the moment," Simmons said.

"Not the others I'm worried about."

* * *

"Stupid... stick to the wall, you fucking..."

Tucker kept grumbling as he tried to stick one of Junior's drawings back on the wall. They just didn't want to stay. The tape he'd used had gotten all fucked over the years since he'd first stuck them up. He needed to get more off Wyoming or someone.

As he tried to stick up the last picture, one of the pencil ones, he bumped another one of them and it fell off.

"Fuck."

The next time he tried, the stupid picture just kept falling down again.

"Fuck!"

Finally, Tucker got the pencil drawing taped back onto the wall. Only for one of the crayon ones to fall off.

"FUCK!"

"Grumpier than Church," Donut muttered as he walked by.

"Shut up, Dye-Job!"

"By the way, think I could bribe you into carrying me around to look for Caboose?"

Tucker just stared at him like he was crazy.

"Right, that was a stupid question."

Once Donut was gone, Tucker bent down to pick up the crayon drawing. And then he noticed what was on it. It was the picture of him, Crunchbite and Junior that his kid had drawn five years ago. As a happy family. Something that had never really been reality, even when Tucker wasn't a jailbird.

Tucker sat down on his cot, still staring at the picture. Seemed like only yesterday that Junior had given him that picture. Only yesterday that Junior had been drawing in crayons.

It was hard to keep track of time. Not much changed in the prison, it always seemed to be the same people. And sure, they got older, but it wasn't that noticeable. Either because it was harder to tell when an adult was getting older since they didn't have growth spurts, or whether because Tucker didn't give a fuck about it.

Junior, however? He just kept getting taller. And more distant. He was transforming from the toddler that Tucker had once held and tried to stop from biting tables, and he'd become a man before Tucker even had the chance to give him a hug. But even then, time in the prison was always at a standstill.

With exceptions, anyway. Like when a friend shoved his tongue down your throat.

Tucker kept staring down at the picture. His fingers brushed the crayon depiction of Junior. Basically a blob with blue hair. The last time he'd spent ages staring at this particular picture had been that day he and the others had gotten drunk off white lightning. The day when he'd had a breakdown over not being able to raise Junior, over not being a proper father.

And Church had been there. Granted, he was shit at being comforting, but he'd been there. He was always there.

Felt weird now that he wasn't.

Now he wasn't quite sure what to do. The fact that he was spending so much time rearranging crayon pictures... he liked looking at the pictures, but rearranging them was doing nothing but pissing him off. And he was doing that mostly because he had nothing else to do. Pretty much his main way of passing time had been annoying Church. Right from the beginning.

Ten years of arguing and blackmailing people and just hanging around. Ten years that hadn't been completely shit. In fact, they'd been far from shit. They'd actually been okay.

Tucker sighed before returning to trying to stick the picture up.

He still didn't want to talk to Church. But... it did feel like there was something missing without Church there.

* * *

Sheila was still going through the process of reviewing the medications that all the inmates were on, and making suitable changes. So many mistakes... she was still amazed that the old doctor, DuFresne, had managed to keep his job for so long. Not that the warden exactly gave a good impression, either.

As she, once again, tried to figure out where the doctor had gotten pills that had been outlawed years ago, the door swung open. Sheila had been expecting Lopez (he normally showed up around now) but it was an inmate she didn't know.

"Yes? Are you injured?"

"No. I am here on behalf of the prophet."

"The prophet?"

That rang a slight bell in Sheila's head. She'd heard about what happened to Walter. Disemboweled by someone who was worshiping a flag. Prophets were a religious thing.

She shifted her chair slightly back, resting her hand on the desk. "I'm afraid this isn't a place that prophets would need to visit. You must be mistaken."

"I am far from mistaken. Although you were mistaken in taking this job. The prophet doesn't appreciate it." The inmate reached into his jacket, and pulled out a shiv that he'd taped to the inside of it. More warning bells, this time much more urgent. After all, a man approaching someone with a sharp knife was never good.

"You're not allowed knives," Sheila said calmly, while getting to her feet. She kept one hand on the desk, fingers touching one of the jars of medication. The other hand she held out to the inmate. "Please hand it over."

"Look. I'm... I'm not so good at the speeches as our leader. So I'm just going to finish this." He pointed the shiv at her and took a step forward. "The flag demands sacrifice. It's an honour, really."

"I'll pass." Sheila eyed the shiv warily. "Step back from the knife."

"Sacrifice. He demands sacrifice." The inmate said it like it was he most sane thing in the world. And then he jumped forward, shiv ready to dig into her stomach.

Sheila grabbed the glass jar of medication and brought it down on the man's head. The glass shattered. At the same time, she felt searing pain around her abdomen.

The inmate fell to the ground, unconscious. But he hadn't missed.

Sheila fell back into her chair, trying not to move too much. Sweating, she looked down at her stomach, touched the handle of the shiv that was sticking out.

_Could be worse._

Sheila didn't move from the chair, only tried to stop the blood with her shirt. Despite the pain, she didn't remove the shiv. She didn't need more bleeding.

She waited until the door swung open again. Lopez walked in, just like he did every day. But he stopped, going pale. Taking in the scene of Sheila sitting there, slowly bleeding. And of the inmate lying on the ground, still unconscious.

"_Sheila?!_"

"_Lopez... dear. Can you... can you please go and find that guard who knows how to do stitches?_" Sheila asked in a strained voice. It was difficult to talk, both due to the pain and the fact that the pain made it hard to think. "I believe his name is Wash."

"_Sheila, you-_" Lopez took a step forward, reaching out.

"_Please just do it. Do it!_" Sheila raised her voice just a little for the last part, but even that sent extra pain through her stomach. A gasp of pain got through. Lopez's expression was just as pained, like he was personally experiencing a shiv to the stomach. Then he turned around and ran to find the guard.

Sheila continued to sit there, trying to keep the bleeding in check and hoping that the inmate who'd done it wouldn't regain consciousness.


	112. Chapter 104: Shower

**Chapter One-Hundred And Four: Shower**

When Donut made it to the bathroom, he intended to be as fast as possible. No distractions. No revelling in the fact that he could wash himself again. Regardless of how long he'd been waiting to have a shower again, he didn't have time to enjoy it.

He'd been focused on this. Just in and out. In and out. And no slipping, no falling over, you'll never be able to get up again. But he'd lost this trail of thought once he entered the bathroom, because the first thing he caught sight of was his own reflection in the polished metal that was the prison's equivalent of a mirror.

And that distracted him completely. Because what he saw in that mirror looked nothing like the reflection he knew so well. Fixated, he moved towards the mirror and stared into it with a mixture of fascination and disgust. He reached up and touched his head. His hair was growing back slowly, but at the moment it was little more than brown stubble. He hadn't shaved in a while, either, so the same went for his face. He didn't wear stubble well, it tended to be kind of patchy. Like growing grass in an area where parts of the soil had been salted.

His fingers moved down to where his ear used to be. All that remained was a couple of flaps, that were covered in stitches. It was strange. It didn't look like his reflection at all, but when he blinked the reflection blinked. Although... he looked about as tired as he felt. That part matched up, at least.

"I look freaking weird," Donut mumbled to himself, fingers still tracing the remains of his ear.

"I wouldn't say you look weird. It's more like the outside is changing to reflect the inside."

Donut jumped as a voice spoke up behind him, and had to grab onto the sink to stop himself from falling. Wash had been standing in the corner, leaning against the wall. Clearly on guard duty.

"What?"

"The girly hair, innocent face and lack of scars? Just contributed to the illusion that you're a harmless fruit fairy," Wash said. "You look more like a hardened criminal now. Apart from your shrimpy qualities, you look just like any other inmate now."

"Hardened criminal? I'm not a hardened criminal! I clean laundry!" Donut protested. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm on guard duty. I'm doing my job."

"First time for everything," Donut muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Donut walked by Wash into the shower room. There were quite a few inmates in there already. Just after lunch was a time when many inmates showered, although Donut had been so slow in reaching the showers that most of them had left by now. Probably little hot water left.

Normally, large amounts of naked showering men made Donut uncomfortable. Simply because after so long without sex (or any physical contact besides punching and the occasional hug) most naked guys started to look good. Which resulted in Donut determinately staring upwards and thinking about threesomes with cheerleaders in order to prevent... reactions.

This time, however? Donut was rather happy about it. Because the more inmates were around, the less chance that Wash would do anything. Not that Donut knew what Wash would do to him if left alone, but in any case... he didn't want to risk it.

As he stripped as quickly as possible without falling over, his main thoughts had gone back to 'be quick.' Just be quick, be quick, be quick. Right up until Donut shuffled under the shower spray.

_Oh. My. God. I forgot how awesome hot water was. Okay, more like lukewarm water, but oh my god..._ Donut sighed happily, briefly forgetting that he was supposed to be getting in and out quickly. Just enjoying the warm water pouring over him and flowing down his back and... God, it was liquid heaven.

_You have to be quick. You need to find Caboose,_ the little voice in the back of his head muttered.

_I know. ...But he's probably fine, right? I can afford to take a little bit of time to have a shower._

_You don't know that. You can't risk it._

Donut stood still under the shower for a few more moments before starting to wash properly with soap. Nice soap that he'd bought off Wyoming. Smelt kind of girly, which got him so much shit from Grif and Simmons.

The entire time he washed with soap, all he could think was 'don't drop it.' Again, it wouldn't have been much of a problem if another guard had been out there. That's why a guard was always in the bathroom whenever the showers were going. If an inmate even thought about making someone 'drop the soap,' then they would be thrown in solitary. It was safe for the most part.

But the guard was Wash. That changed things.

After a couple of minutes, the group of inmates in there left, arguing about whether the mystery meat served for lunch was poisonous, and whether or not it was as dangerous as the macaroni had been. And Donut was left by himself.

Why'd they have to leave in a group? Donut didn't like this. He felt naked. ...Well, he was naked. But he felt naked in a metaphorical sense, as well.

It only took a few seconds for Wash to speak up.

"So. You can walk again."

"No thanks to you," Donut grumbled.

"No thanks to me? I was the 'doctor' when you were hurt. I called the ambulance as quick as possible. If it'd been Doc, he probably would have tried to fix you himself. And probably would have killed you in the process. I saved your life."

"And then you left me in the room with O'Malley! What the hell? Why save my life if you were going to do... that?!"

"Because I need to know how you killed Meta."

"Oh, not this again... Why won't you let this go?" Donut yelled.

"Let this go?" Wash chuckled bitterly. "I doubt I'm capable of letting this go. Sometimes I wish I could just forget about... all that... but I just can't do that. Not after fifteen years of nothing but..." Wash sighed. "Doesn't matter why I can't let it go. The point is that I just can't. And this would be so much easier if you just told me what I wanted to know."

"I have told you. And you screamed at me. I keep telling you, it honestly was dumb luck."

"It couldn't be dumb luck!" Wash snapped.

"It was! He... he got distracted. He got distracted at the wrong moment, because of dumb luck. The only reason that I'm still alive is a mixture of dumb luck and, maybe, stubbornness about dying. I mean, I don't want to die. I don't want to go to Heaven or Hell, the outfits for both are kinda tacky. Not into the Hell one, in particular. Leather makes me itch."

"You managed to kill the Meta because you didn't want to wear leather in the afterlife," Wash said in a deadpan tone.

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"Oh my god, you're an idiot."

"A living idiot."

"Donut, I really just want to get this over with. You think leaving you with O'Malley for a few minutes was the worst I could do? Would you rather I throw you in solitary with him? Or maybe just beat you into a pulp myself? There's no-one around, I could easily do it right now."

Donut jumped back, trying to make sure he was out of Wash's view. As if being out of view could protect him.

"You wouldn't. Other inmates will come and use the showers soon," Donut said. He kept his voice as steady as possible.

"And I'll just order them not to tell. Fear is one of the strongest forces in this prison, Donut. Regardless of what Wyoming says," he added in an undertone.

"Er, what?"

"But tell me what I want to know and nothing will happen to you."

"I have told you what you want to know. I just can't tell what you want to hear," Donut sighed. He grabbed his clothes and started getting dressed as fast as possible, not even bothering to dry himself. "You want to hear something about me doing some kind of awesome expert thing to kill Maine. You want to hear something like 'I did this fighting move that's only known by an old guy who bathes under waterfalls.'"

"I'm not interested in hearing cliches of kung fu movies," Wash said.

"No, but you want to hear something awesome. Something that takes a lot of skill and effort. You want to hear that I did something that you couldn't do, because then it would all make sense. Why you couldn't beat him and I could." Donut finished pulling his clothes on, left the showers and faced Wash, scowling. "But I can't tell you that, because it wouldn't be true.

"You might not want to hear about the cliches of kung fu movies, but you want everything to be simple like them. Because in those, it's always the student who was taught the super special move that no-one else knows who wins. Kung fu movies are simple and make sense. The strongest fighter who knows the best tricks wins. But if there's one thing I've learnt in this place, it's that life doesn't happen like movies do."

"So, you're not gonna tell me how you did it."

"Wow. Okay. I'll consider that point missed. Seriously, are you stupid? Or are you just insane like I've heard?"

"Don't. Call. Me. Insane."

"You're insane! Insane, insane, insane! This whole damn prison is insane!" Donut yelled. "Insane!"

Wash's hand was going for his nightstick when Lopez came running in. He looked out of breath.

"_Washington! It's Sheila! You have to help Sheila!_"

"...Uh."

"_She was attacked by one of those insane flag-worshipping maniacs, and now she's bleeding. You have to help her! You have to! Please, you have to help my wife!_"

"I don't know Spanish."

"_Help Sheila!_" Lopez roared.

"I think he said that Sheila was entering a go-kart race and needed help building it, or else she'll have to wave the white flag," Donut said.

"_Sheila has been stabbed! She's going to die if you don't stop translating like a moron!_"

"Oh shit, did I get that wrong. Sheila's been stabbed," Donut said quickly. "Wait, seriously?"

"Again? This is getting ridiculous," Wash muttered. "I'll see what I can do." He quickly left, walking towards the infirmary. Lopez stood still for a moment, breathing heavily. He glanced back at Donut before running off.

Donut covered his face. Another stabbing. Donut's stomach dropped. Lopez had mentioned flags. The flag-worshipping zealot. The one Donut had seen. Donut could have stopped him! If... if only...

Donut started shuffling back towards Grif's cell. He couldn't do anything about that now. There was no point in going 'if only.' All he could do was try and make sure other people were safe.

Besides, Caboose would want to know what had happened to Sheila.


	113. Chapter 105: Divorce

**Chapter One-Hundred And Five: Divorce**

"Now, just hold as still as possible and try not to scream much. Isn't there any anaesthetic?" Wash asked. Sheila shook her head slowly.

"I ordered some, but it hasn't arrived," she said. Her breaths were short and ragged, and while she was clearly trying to be as nonchalant about the pain as possible, it was still obviously affecting her. "Where's Lopez?"

"He was getting overexcited and yelling a lot. I locked him out of the room."

There was a hammering noise at the door, followed by a tirade of angry Spanish.

"You're not helping me concentrate!" Wash yelled back. To Sheila, he added, "He'll probably kick down the door given enough time. I'll let him in once I've stitched you up."

More hammering.

"Lopez, if you distract me I might make a mistake! Be quiet!"

Lopez quieted down after that. Wash shook his head before returning his attention towards the stab wound. He finished wiping away the blood. "I assume you haven't be shanked before."

"No. A patient did attempt it once, but he was using a plastic fork. It wasn't very effective," Sheila said, her speech slow and often interrupted by her raspy breathing.

"Hm." Wash started to sew her wound together, and felt her tense up. "You can handle this? Are you sure you don't want to be transported to a proper hospital?"

"While normally I would, I'm sure any qualified doctor would tell me to rest easy for a while. And I don't have the time to do that. Can you tell the warden I'll be back either tomorrow or the next day?"

"You're staying?"

"I have to."

"That's either brave or stupid. And they aren't mutually exclusive," Wash said. He was concentrating more so than he did whenever he had to stitch up inmates. "So, the one that attacked you said something about sacrifice, didn't he?"

"How'd you know?"

"Same as what happened to Henderson. Different guy, same reason. They're all loonies." Wash frowned, deep in thought for the next few minutes as he kept stitching. "Might have to call him," he muttered to himself.

"Call who?"

"What? Nothing. Just thinking. Listen, I need to call someone once I'm done, do you think I can leave you alone with Lopez? I'm sure that's not breaking any rules. But no, erm... funny business. The stitching can't take it. And I think staff-inmate relations are against the rules anyway, although I'm not sure that rule counts if marriage is involved..."

"I'm not going to engage in intercourse while you're gone. Is that good enough?" Sheila sighed.

"Don't have to be so blunt about it," Wash muttered. "But yes, it is. And... I'm done. That good enough?"

Sheila raised her head enough to see the stitching. "Passable."

"Well, then it's good enough."

* * *

"Okay, seriously. Where the fuck is he?" Grif wheezed. He walked across the yard, Donut clinging to his back and looking around. They were getting a lot of strange looks from the other inmates wandering around. "I gotta rest."

"But you rested not long ago!" Donut whined.

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm really unhealthy!"

"I have noticed! How do you stay that pudgy when all we get to eat is the bare minimum of nutrition?"

"I spend all the money I earn from laundry on either pruno ingredients or junk food."

"I don't care! No rests! No rests!"

"Donut! We've looked everywhere! He's probably moving around like we are. Dumbass probably got lost."

"But I need to find him!" Donut protested, as Grif dropped him on a bench.

"Yeah, well... technically, you can walk. Find him yourself."

"But I promised to wash your underwear!"

"I don't care, if I wanted to exhaust myself I would go back to playing Sarge's stupid 'red vs blue' sports games," Grif complained. Donut looked up from where he'd been scowling at the concrete floor, as if it was to blame for Grif's tiredness.

"Wait. We haven't checked there."

"Checked where?"

"You know, that little dirt square where Sarge would make us play sports." That hadn't happened in a while. Those games usually involved nothing but Grif lazing around and refusing to play, either Church or Tucker being accidentally hurt by Caboose, who usually insisted that Tucker did it, and arguments between Sarge and Flowers about them favoring each other's teams. Plus, there were so many injuries lately that there was never enough players from their row of cells.

"Why the hell would he be there?"

"Well, if he's hiding... I mean, no-one goes there. There's nothing but dirt. It's dirty."

"No shit. Fine. Hurry up."

"You hurry up, you're the one giving the piggyback. Speed, Grif! Speed!"

"No amount of clean underwear is worth this," Grif muttered, as he returned to ferrying Donut around the prison.

When they arrived at the little square of dirt used to play sports, they found Caboose. Sitting in the dirt, tracing patterns in the dirt. Or maybe they were pictures. It was impossible to tell, they were so squiggly. Grif immediately dropped Donut again, although he was at least nice enough to make sure Donut didn't fall over.

"Great. You've found him. My work is done. I'm leaving before it gets awkward," Grif said, before running away as quick as his laziness would allow.

Caboose had noticed Grif talking and looked up. He stared at Donut with the same expression as a deer caught in headlights. Donut took a step forward.

"Caboose..."

Caboose jumped to his feet and started running away.

"Caboose! I know you're not gonna make a cripple run!" Donut yelled. Caboose slowed, and then came to a halt before turning around. Donut tried to move forward again and wobbled. "And I know you're not gonna make a cripple walk this distance between us." He motioned for Caboose to come back. Caboose fidgeted a bit before doing so.

"Why are you still following me?" Caboose muttered.

"I was worried! You're... you're acting weird! Just... just sit down and we're talk. No, wait, don't sit down, it's dirty here. Ah, nuts to it, sit down. You've already got dirt all over your butt. I'm gonna have to wash your pants again."

Caboose sat down again. Donut did as well, against his better pant-related judgment.

"Now, Caboose... why'd you run away?"

"I... you were scared. You got that face when I told you about Mama. The 'there is a special level of Hell for you' face. I have seen it before. Although last time they... they said the words."

"Did I look that revolted?" Donut asked. "I didn't think that. I mean... yeah, it was bad, but..."

"Everyone gets that face when the... the thing with Mama comes up. Even Papa... especially Papa." Caboose started tracing in the dirt again, tracing what looked like an egg with a beard.

"Your dad?"

"No. Papa is... he is my stepdad. Dad was my dad. I do not like him." Caboose wrinkled his nose. "He was a lot like Tucker. He smelt the same and was always talking about ladies that he had... um... done the icky with."

"Gross."

"Mm." Caboose stared down at the ground, at the scribbly drawings. "You do not have to lie to me anymore. You do not have to pretend to like me. It is okay. I will stay out of the way." He was tracing something else in the dirt now. Something that looked like an egg with a ponytail and a blob for a hat.

"Aw, Caboose. Look." Donut sighed, trying to figure out his words. "I'm going to be completely honest with you. Alright? What you did to your mother... yes. That was horrible. Worse than horrible. I mean, murder is bad enough. Murdering your mother? That's... that's... see, I don't even have the words for how bad that is." Donut saw that Caboose looked on the edge of tears again, and raised his hands. "Don't cry... Please? I'm sorry, I was trying to be honest..."

"I know... But..." Caboose covered his face. "Are you done? Can I hide now?"

"No. What I was leading up to was... it was a horrible thing. But despite that... I know you've at least got some good in there. And regardless of all that good and bad stuff, I'm still your friend. I'm freaked out by what you did, completely and totally freaked out, but I'm still staying. Because that's what friends do, right? They stick by each other. And whatever else I might have lied about... the part about being your friend? I didn't lie about that."

Caboose didn't uncover his face. "So, you are not mad? You forgive me?"

"Don't think it matters if I forgive you or not. I honestly think... you should just forget about other people forgiving you, and try to forgive yourself first. That's a big part of what's hurting you at the moment, isn't it? You need to figure out how to get over it."

"It is hard."

"I know. Believe me, I know that from experience. And that was just a roommate."

"Huh? But..." Caboose looked up. "You said that was in self-defence."

"It was. But it's still murder." Donut scraped his boot on the ground. "Even now, I keep thinking. What if I'd stopped? I didn't, I just kept stabbing. I know it started out as self-defence, but I could have done it differently. Maybe I could have stopped before I killed him. But I can't spend all my time dwelling on it, or I'd drive myself nuts. Same goes for you. Hey, can you help me up?"

Caboose nodded and climbed to his feet, pulling Donut up with him.

"I'm probably going to need some help getting back to the cells. Can I get a piggyback ride?"

"Okay."

"Cool. And when we get back, I think you need to change your pants. They're covered in dirt."

As Caboose carried Donut back towards the prison, he said, "Captain Buttermuffin?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"Don't worry about it."

* * *

"_I'll kill him._"

"_Lopez, please don't kill anyone,_" Sheila sighed. "_Not again._" She was still lying on the cot. Wash had left to call someone, and he'd stated that when he came back he'd bring another guard, so they could carry Sheila to her car using the stretcher. Just to make sure she didn't make a mess of Wash's sub-standard stitches.

"_They can't be allowed to get away with this,_" Lopez growled. "_And I know O'Malley put them up to this. That... that fucked up... I thought he might try to blackmail me into cooperating like this, but he didn't even bring you up... he's just doing this for shits and giggles._"

"_Just don't think about it. You have no proof he was involved, in any case._"

"_But he was._" Lopez sat next to Sheila's cot. One hand was tangled in her hair, slowly stroking it. The other was gripping her hand tightly, like his life depended on it. Or like hers did.

Sheila gazed at the ceiling. "_I never realised how much these sorts of injuries hurt. I should know these things. Perhaps the personal experience with these sorts of attacks isn't a bad thing. I'll know how to deal with them next time it happens here._"

"_But you won't have to deal with it next time. There won't be a next time,_" Lopez insisted.

"_Don't be silly, Lopez. There will probably be a next time. You said yourself that attacks are common._"

"_But... you have to leave._"

"_I'm not leaving._"

"_Sheila, don't you understand how serious this is? You almost died!_"

"_You're making a fuss. The wound is shallow for a stab wound._"

"_No, you're right, stab wounds are no big deal. They're on the same level as breaking a nail,_" Lopez sighed. "_Are you insane? Is this prison infecting you with stupidity?_"

"_Lopez... I know how serious this is. And that's precisely why I can't leave. What happens if there's no doctor here? What if you're attacked next and there's no-one around to help? I'm not going to let that happen._"

"_You can't do this. What will it take you to stop?_"

"_You being freed._"

"_That'll be twenty years at the least. And you almost died in your first week. You'll never make it._"

"_Yes, I will. You need me here,_" Sheila said firmly.

"_And I need you to stay alive._"

Minutes passed in silence. Lopez kept stroking Sheila's hair absently. He was the first to break the silence.

"_We need a divorce._"

"_No, we don't._"

"_Yes. Yes, we do._" Lopez wasn't looking at Sheila, even though he still continued to stroke her hair. "_We need it._"

"_I will assume this is your method of getting me to stay away. If it's not, and it's just coincidence that you brought it up while I'm bleeding from a stab wound, then you could have chosen a better time,_" Sheila said calmly. "_Do you honestly want to divorce me?_"

"_Of course I don't. But..._" Lopez removed his hand from her hair, clasped her hand with both of his. "_It's not just about protecting you. Although... that is a very big part of it. But I'm going to be locked up here for too long, Sheila. You... you need someone who can actually provide for you. Who can be there for you. And by the time I'm able to leave, you'll be... well, old._"

"_So will you. Don't make fun of my future age,_" Sheila murmured.

"_It's not that. I mean, what if you wanted kids? By the time I get out, you'll be too old and it won't be an option. I think it's better if I'm not dragging you down._"

There was a moment's pause, before Sheila said, "_Can you move a little closer, please?_"

Lopez did so, leaning in a bit further. Then Sheila reached up and gently slapped the back of his head.

"_Ow?_"

"_That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard,_" Sheila said. "_You're here for me right now. Or is it an identical stranger sitting here holding my hand?_"

"_Yes. It's an identical stranger. I'm not actually Lopez, I'm his long-lost twin brother Leroy,_" Lopez groaned. "_Sheila, I'm dragging you down. I'm as much a prison for you as these walls are for me._"

"_There's a key difference, Lopez. Unlike you, I'm choosing to stay in my 'prison.' You can divorce me if that's really what you want. But I'm keeping this job regardless. I'm staying here for you. Whether you want it or not._" Sheila laughed lightly. "_Besides. I knew there was going to be no kids when I married you. You hate kids._"

"_I do. They're noisy and sticky,_" Lopez muttered.

"_I know, dear. I know._"


	114. Chapter 106: Chat

**Chapter One-Hundred And Six: Chat**

Wyoming certainly supported O'Malley and his amusing schemes, especially when those schemes involved potential escape. But his obsession with Doc was, quite frankly, becoming irritating. Not to mention potentially spoiling the escape plans. The attacks on whoever was in the infirmary were doing little but drawing attention and suspicion. And the only reason O'Malley insisted on this was that he was still convinced that piling enough guilt on Doc would make him come back.

Wyoming, for one, didn't want Doc to return. At least not until after the escape. There was a good chance O'Malley would decide that an escape wasn't necessary if he returned, and while Wyoming could certainly manage a lot of the escape on his own, he was rather relying on those crazy flag-worshippers for manpower. O'Malley losing interest in their plan just wouldn't do.

Perhaps the obsession with Doc did serve its purpose. But really, the stalkerish phone calls were a bit much. Especially when O'Malley had to send other people to do it for him. People like Wyoming, for example.

It was tiresome.

Wyoming dialled the number that he'd found in O'Malley's cell. He glanced around casually to make sure no guards were standing too close to the phones. They weren't. Excellent.

It didn't take long to pick up.

"Yes?" Doc sounded nervous. No surprise, after all the other phone calls. He'd probably been expecting it by now.

"DuFresne! My good chum, it's been so long. How have you been?" Wyoming said, forcing the cheery friendliness into his voice. He didn't want Doc to be afraid of him. He wanted the man to listen.

"Wyoming? O'Malley told you to call, didn't he?" There was a long sigh on the other end of the phone. "Who did he attack this time?"

"Another doctor. Good news, Doc. This one lived." Wyoming heard another sigh. This one sounded more relieved. "But he's still angry. And he's still insisting that you return to the prison. The obsession is getting rather unhealthy, really. I would go into more detail about his threats and demands, but I suspect you don't want to hear them."

"No, thank you." There was a long pause. Wyoming was starting to suspect Doc had hung up when he spoke again. "He's not going to stop, is he?"

"Would you like my advice, DuFresne?"

"I... well... I guess it couldn't hurt..."

"Well." Wyoming rested his arm on the phone box, glancing around again. "What O'Malley wants me to do is agree. Give you my most convincing talk about how you'll never, ever escape from him, and how he'll always keep hunting you down. Blah blah blah. You've heard it before, I suspect."

"Yeah, he... he said stuff like that before, even when I was still there..." Wyoming heard him gulp quietly. He was probably at least nervous by this point, if not completely terrified.

"Mm, yes. Well, that's what he wants me to tell you. But I'm not going to just repeat that angry drivel. Instead, I'm going to inform you of the truth."

"The truth?"

"In my many, many years both guarding and living in prisons, I've come across O'Malley's type before. The ones that don't particularly care about anything except their own amusement. Now, they may vary in some ways, but there is one thing you can be sure of. They get bored very easily."

"I did notice that. He was really easy to distract, sometimes," Doc said. "When he was on different medication, anyway. Then he'd get distracted by his own hands. And there was a stretch of time when I'd just bring in a kaleidoscope to play with, and he'd leave me alone. For a little while, anyway."

"Exactly, although I think the kaleidoscope business is more due to the medication than what I'm talking about. My point is that the man has the attention span of a goldfish. It's a miracle he's stayed interested in tormenting you for so long. He lost interest in the others. He tried messing with Tex, she wouldn't break and so he quit. He messed up Caboose, then got bored and moved on to you. Give it time, and the same will happen for you. He'll lose interest, and you'll be completely free of him and his stalkerish tendencies."

Wyoming was more unsure of this than he acted. While most of what he said was very true, O'Malley's fascination with tormenting Doc was unusually strong. It'd kept him amused for at least the last five years, and that was a miracle in itself. Maybe this was different. But then again, maybe it was just the same as all the other times.

"But he keeps saying he'll find me," Doc said quietly. "You think he'd get bored before then?"

No. "Of course. Honestly, how would he find you? Those walls are there for a reason, chap."

"Yeah, I... I guess."

"Believe me, you're perfectly safe where you are. And don't fret about the attacks happening here. They'll stop once he finds a new 'subject.' In any case, I think he's doing less damage than you were during your stint as 'doctor.'"

"...Yeah. I know."

"Now, if O'Malley calls you again and asks, then I gave you my most convincing lecture on why you should come back. Is that clear?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

"Also, just a recommendation... but I really would consider changing your phone number. Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't already."

"I... well, that's sort of rude, and if someone wanted to contact me..."

"Does anyone who isn't a bloodthirsty inmate ever call you?"

"Well, no."

"Hm. Depressing. Perhaps you should join one of those clubs that get together, drink tea and have chats about the curtains. It seems more healthy than waiting for phone calls from serial killers."

"I wasn't waiting for—"

"You didn't seem surprised when I called."

"That's... shut up. Gah, sorry," Doc mumbled.

"You don't have to apologise. In fact, you could do with a little more spine. Well, this was a lovely chat, DuFresne. Farewell." Wyoming hung up without waiting for the response. Hopefully that little talk would stop any chance of Doc getting ideas about coming back, at least until the breakout. And perhaps it would have the added effect of getting him into those tea gatherings. Always a good thing.

As Wyoming walked away from the phone boxes, he saw Washington walking towards him, heading for the phones himself. He nodded and smiled smugly.

"Good day, Washington. Lovely day. Much better than the night, I'm sure."

"Shut up."

Wyoming merely smiled wider and kept walking, humming 'God Save The Queen' quietly to himself.

* * *

Washington didn't want to do this. He was just not one for trying to talk to people. Especially people that annoyed him. Washington had a long list of people that annoyed him, and Doc was pretty close to the top.

But all these doctors being attacked... that was too far. Inmates getting hurt or killed was one thing. In fact, that was probably doing society a big favour. But this...

And there was simply no way Washington could stop it on his own. The most obvious solution would be, of course, to just go up there and kill O'Malley himself. That would end this quickly.

But there were problems with that. For example, Wyoming. Wyoming would figure out what had happened if O'Malley suddenly died in his little infirmary room. And even if the guards didn't believe him, or neglected to try and press charges, then Wyoming might see this as reason enough to spill Wash's past to York. And Wash didn't want that. Not at all.

There was also the fact that, with Meta gone, O'Malley was his only chance at finding the others from his little group. However small that chance was, it was still there. There was no-one else who could tell him where Delta, Theta, Epsilon and Alpha were. Or who they were. He'd suspected that maybe Donut was one of them at first, but the fact that Donut's voice was completely unfamiliar, mixed with his confusion over the name 'Meta,' made that highly unlikely.

Those two reasons were just weak enough on their own that Wash might have risked killing O'Malley anyway, if it was just one of those problems. But no. He'd just have to try doing this the non-violent way.

Washington picked up the phone and dialled Doc's number. He'd had to go through Sarge's files to get it. Probably illegal, but Sarge hadn't seemed to care as long as he burned the file of 'that dirty Blue sympathizer' afterwards.

The phone picked up.

"Look, I'll change my number, alright? You don't have to call and check, I can't do it in two minutes!" Doc whined. "I have to get back to work, I've been on break for too—"

"Doc?"

"Wait, Washington? Oh. Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else. Just a minute!" he heard Doc call at someone else, before Doc said, "Uh, you caught me at a bad time. The boss wants me to get back to work."

"You actually found another job. I'm stunned. Who would hire you? Actually, I don't care. Listen, Doc. You know what is happening here, don't you?"

"Um. No?"

"Yes, you do. You showed up in the parking lot the day Walter got disemboweled. And I trust your bullshit about 'just having a feeling something bad was going to happen' as much as I would trust South about... well, anything."

"I didn't know! Not exactly..."

"And to top that off... A little while ago, Donut got attacked by O'Malley. Well, attacked isn't the right word. It was... disturbingly affectionate, for one. But do you know what he kept saying during this? ...Well, a lot of it was rather distorted by the fact that he was overdosing on pills at the time, but I distinctly heard him say 'Doc.' Quite a bit, actually."

Doc was silent on the other end.

"Now, I honestly don't care what exactly happened between you and him. But it's obvious at this point that all these attacks are just him throwing some kind of sick, violent tantrum about you leaving. Who knows why. Maybe he misses having an incompetent doctor."

"No."

"No, what?"

"I know where this is going. And the answer is... is no," Doc said quietly.

"Look, whatever the reason for O'Malley and his stupid tantrums, fact is that it's still connected to you. And the only way to stop them is to get you back here."

"And I said no. I can't."

"You can. You just won't. People are dying because of this, Doc."

"More people were dying when I was there!"

"Correction, Doc. Inmates were dying. And they barely count as people. What O'Malley's doing isn't just restricted to inmates anymore. You think I'd be going to you for help if it was?"

"That's really harsh. And offensive. Inmates are people."

"Barely."

"It doesn't matter. I can't come back. Sarge fired me. You helped me get him to do that, remember?"

"I can talk him around, if necessary. It probably wouldn't take that much. I'd probably just have to say that you decided to defect to the Reds or something equally ridiculous. And I don't care what job you get here, whether it's medical or something else. Just find a job here to stop O'Malley from this rampage."

"I can't. I'm not... I don't want to go back to that! You don't know... don't know what he's like!"

"I know exactly what O'Malley is like." Wash looked down at his arms. The sleeves covered it up, but he knew the patterns that O'Malley had carved there so well he could practically see them through the cloth. The fingernails had grown back long ago, but he could still remember the agony of having them pulled out. And his gums tingled if he even thought about O'Malley pulling his teeth out, though he had false ones covering up the fact they were gone.

Wash forced back the tidal wave of memories that threatened to come crashing through his head. "I know what he's like all too well. I probably understand that more than anyone else in this prison. And I know that what I'm asking is huge. But it's the only way."

"No, it's not. He's distracted. He gets bored. He'll stop! He'll stop when he gets bored!" Doc insisted.

"Do you know how long that will take? That man can find months of amusement with just one victim, and that was on the outside. When he had other options than torturing one guy in a basement."

"What?"

"Never mind. Metaphor."

"That sounded kind of specific for a metaphor."

"It was definitely a metaphor. My point is that by the time he gets bored... well, a lot of people who have done nothing to deserve it will have to get hurt or die before he reaches that point."

There was a long pause before Doc said, "I have to get back to work."

"Yes, you do. But you need to get to work here, not wherever you are. But I've made my point. Just... think about it."


	115. Chapter 107: Spring Cleaning

**Chapter One-Hundred And Seven: Spring Cleaning**

"Eat."

"I am not hungry."

"I said eat! Or I swear to God, Caboose, I will tickle you until you have to open your mouth from laughter. And then I will cram it down your throat. Just eat!"

Donut's patience may have been wearing a little thin by that point. He wasn't exactly angry, he was just getting worried and annoyed at the fact that Caboose wasn't really eating. He was just pushing the food on his plate back and forth.

"Hey, if you're not going to eat it then can I have it?" Grif asked.

"Ye—"

"No! He's eating it!"

"Don't have to yell, Donut. Jeez."

Donut pulled a face before going back to eating. Despite the fact that, for the first time in a while, no-one was missing from the table, it was still awkward. Church and Tucker were both there, but they were just flat-out ignoring each other. And maybe Grif and Simmons had just run low on conversation topics or something, but they were quiet as well. It was weird.

As Donut ate, he spotted Lopez nearby. Sitting by himself and also doing little more than pushing his food around on his plate.

"Oh crap, I forgot about Sheila," Donut muttered.

"Sheila? What about Sheila? Captain Cookie? What happened to Sheila?" Caboose asked.

"Uhhh... give me a moment. I'll be back." Donut climbed to his feet and passed a couple of tables on his way to Lopez. As he did, he noticed the zealots were sitting not too far away. The leader was talking, waving his hands around dramatically as he did so. Donut reached Lopez and tapped him on the shoulder. "Lopez?"

Lopez took a moment to react, and even then he didn't turn around. "_Did you want something?_"

"How's Sheila? Is she okay?"

"_She will heal. She will ignore her common sense and return soon._"

"Oh. Well, at least she's not badly injured?"

"_That is a matter of opinion._"

Donut sat down next to him, trying to lean forward and see his face. "Are you gonna kill me?"

"_Why would I kill you?_"

"You said something about if Sheila got hurt or was threatened or whatever, then you'd kill me. Is that not true or..."

"_I said if O'Malley gave me a choice between Sheila getting killed or you getting killed, then I would kill you myself to protect her. But he did not give me that choice. He never threatened me or Sheila, and those zealots attacked her anyway._" Lopez took a sip of apple juice before continuing. "_He sent them to kill Henderson and most likely sent them to kill Sheila, as well. But he didn't do it because of anything I did. Killing you wouldn't solve anything because it has nothing to do with you or me. He's just killing off doctors. Who knows why._"

"Might have something to do with Doc," Donut said, recalling O'Malley's last attack. The groping and kissing and the continuous mention of 'Doc.' He didn't get it, but what little he knew he knew was fucked.

"_It doesn't matter what the reason is. Next time I see O'Malley, I am going to break his neck,_" Lopez growled. "S_ame for that zealot who stabbed her. No-one. Hurts. Sheila._" He looked at Donut. "_Is that what you came here for?_"

"Yeah, I just wanted to ask about her."

"_Then leave me alone._"

Donut moved back to his table and sat down next to Caboose. "Sheila is fine, but she's taking a few days off. She... she got a bit hurt, but she's okay."

"Did someone hurt her?"

"No-one important."

Caboose frowned and stared over at Lopez. He was still pushing his food around on his plate.

"I told you to eat."

"I am eating. Half the plate is empty," Caboose said.

"Caboose, pushing all the food to one side doesn't count. Now, eat. Om nom nom. If you do, I'll do... um... something nice?"

"Stories?"

"What?"

"Will you read stories? You did not ever finish ' The Awesome Magician Who Had Fabulously Happy Times' because we had a bad fight."

"Yeah. I just made it up, remember?"

"Then you can make up an ending." Caboose rocked back and forth on his chair. "All stories are made up. And I like your one the best."

_But I just added sparkly magic to what was happening in prison. And I don't know how that's going to end yet._

That was what Donut thought. Out loud he said, "Eat all your food and I'll tell you some more before bedtime."

"Okay."

* * *

Sarge was cleaning out his desk.

He hadn't bothered to do this since he first got the job as warden. His desk was crammed with a large assortment of crap that had no practical use in a prison. He found a pile of wires and chips that were from a killer robot he'd tried to make at home. He'd hid the pieces at work after the robot had sliced its way through most of the walls and the broom his wife had been hitting it with.

There was also a pile of dog biscuits, cobra biscuits (which it turns out was actually a box of animal crackers with 'cobra biscuits' written across the front with pen) and other mementos from the many more manly pets that he'd tried to get his son. He wasn't sure why he'd stacked the pet food in his desk. Perhaps as emergency rations if he ever got locked in his office.

Flowers strolled in while Sarge had his arm elbow-deep in one of the drawers.

"This desk is huge!" Sarge said, sticking his arm in further. "I could fit a whole zombie survival kit in here! I do need to stash one of those at work. It's a horrible danger to be stuck here without one, especially since this prison will be a delicious meal for the undead! All those criminal masterminds walking about..."

"How many zombie plans do you have?"

"Thirty-seven! I suppose you don't even have one, you girly-haired hippy."

"I'm not as prepared as you. I only have two or three."

"Slacker."

"Well, it's difficult to make plans that encompass the men as well as myself."

"Don't be stupid, you dandelion! It's easy! Use the men as a distraction. While they're being eaten alive, run for your life! Preferably make sure that Grif is right out front when the zombie horde hits."

"You're not a team player, Sarge."

"I'm very much a team player! The team is nothing without it's leader! Or with a zombie leader!" Sarge kept rifling around in the desk, and pulled out a bottle of perfume. "Ah. That's where the anniversary gift went."

Flowers took his usual seat on top of the desk. "Lovely. For which anniversary was that?"

"Six years ago."

"Oh dear." Flowers looked over the contents of the desk, which were now scattered all over the floor. "Do you really think that Vic is going to look through your desk?"

"Never know. Have to be prepared for whatever the enemy... or Vic... throws at us! Things are rocky enough with all these attacks on the doctors! And I don't want to lose this job. What other job can I take that lets me chase around criminal dirtbags?"

"It's a fair point. But maybe you should focus on the things he's more liable to notice. What's more important? Making sure the guards are where they should be and that there's no obvious deficiencies in the building? Or making sure there's no pet food in your desk?"

Sarge considered this. "You make a point there, goldilocks."

"That's what I'm here for. That and to shoot anyone who tries to escape," Flowers said cheerfully. He nudged Sarge's shoulder with his foot. "Now turn that frown upside down."

"Don't pep talk me." Sarge got to his feet, picked up the box of animal crackers. "Cobra biscuit?"

"Don't mind if I do."

* * *

The day before the inspection, Wyoming sat outside the infirmary room that O'Malley was still locked in.

"Well, it seems everything's in place for the big inspection. Doesn't it just make your toes curl with excitement, my friend?" Wyoming was playing with a piece of paper. Paper that was leftover from his previous conversations with O'Malley, during which O'Malley had given him instructions. Wyoming had crossed out instructions as he fulfilled them. "The zealots have been keeping discreet ears and eyes out. The guard patterns should be reasonably easy to guess. Once we're outside the fences, anything goes, but until then I've got it plotted out rather well.

"You can move around well enough, I'm sure? You'll need to be able to do that."

Wyoming had expected either a note or, at best, a grunt. But for the first time in a while, O'Malley actually spoke. His speech sounded slightly off, like his tongue still wasn't quite right, but he was understandable.

"I can move as much as is necessary. I'm not a delicate china doll."

"Forgive the implications. I haven't actually seen you in quite a while, it's hard to tell what goes on behind closed doors."

"Doc has not returned, has he?"

"I'm afraid not. Believe me, I had him right on the edge there. He was very tempted! But I'm afraid it just didn't take. Such a pity," Wyoming lied. "What do you have in store for the medic? Death?"

"After all the trouble I've gone through to get him back? No. But he will wish for it by the time I'm finished with him," O'Malley growled. "He is not getting away without punishment."

"That's the right attitude. Like training a dog, isn't it? If you kick it, it knows it's done wrong." Wyoming shrugged. "Well, up to you. Once we're out, you can have as many psychotic obsessions as you want."

"Yes. It'll be delightful." O'Malley chuckled, the first proper evil chuckle he'd done since his tongue was bitten in two. He probably could have before then, but having a constant pain in your tongue tended to remove the urge. "I have missed the freedom of the outside. It wasn't just a matter of picking victims from what was available. It's like comparing a mall to a tiny corner side shop."

"Only you would make that comparison."

"Good. If there were too many of me, they'd get to the good victims before me."

"It would be a sad world."


	116. Chapter 108: The Calm Before

**Chapter One-Hundred And Eight: The Calm Before**

"Sarge! He's here."

Sarge had been in his office for the last two hours, trying to look professional and like he was actually doing paperwork. However, after a while he had fallen asleep. So when Vic finally did arrive, led into the office by Flowers, Sarge was using his paperwork as a pillow.

"Eh?" Sarge sat up. A sheet of his paperwork was stuck to the side of his face. "I was having a power nap! It's the best way to stay energised throughout the day, so I can be aware when it's important!"

Flowers smiled in a half-friendly, half-condensending way. "Of course. Anyway, I'm sure Vic would like to see the prison. See all the rascals wandering around. I should get back to patrol." He turned around and walked out. Vic brushed off his plain suit before waving.

"Yo, dude, what's going on?"

"Took your sweet time getting here!" Sarge grumbled. "What took you so long? You were supposed to be here at ten! It's nearly midday, you..."

"Sorry, dude. There was traffic. Heaps of it. And I stopped for brunch, they had half-price at this pad I like." Vic looked around. "Nice office, man. Lots of medals. Very nice, very shiny. You gonna show me around or what, dude?"

"Sure. The dirtbags should be finishing work about now, so you're too late for that part, but they'll all be gathering in the cafeteria. Any problems arise, you'll see our men at work. But for now, let's just bask in the victorious smell of... victory."

"Victory? Against what, dude?"

"Uh. Against... dirtbags. Against criminal dirtbags. Yep. Anyway, I'll show you to the cafeteria. And afterwards maybe you'd like to see the infirmary? We have a doctor now, I'll have you know. A proper one. Competent woman. Knows a lot of long words. Can take a stabbing without dying."

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool."

* * *

Wash was patrolling the cell blocks. Most of the other guards had been moved into more prominent sight, especially in the more crowded areas of the prison. However, Sarge didn't think that Vic would be impressed by having the guards with 'wackier' pasts in plain sight, so Wash was left to cover the cells, at least for the moment.

Wash wasn't happy about it. Not so much the duty as the reason why. He disliked being called 'wacky.' Too close to crazy. And he was not crazy.

Something hit him in the back of the head. It didn't hurt, but it was mildly irritating.

Wash turned around and picked it up. It was a paper cup. There were still drops of orange juice clinging to the inside. The one who'd thrown it at him was the crazy flag worshipper with a flair for disembowelment.

"What do you think you're doing?" Wash asked coldly. The Red Zealot took a couple of steps back.

"All hail His Holy Flappiness!" the man squeaked loudly. He threw another paper cup at Wash. Where was he getting them from? And why was he throwing them?

In any case, it was annoying. Wash pulled out his nightstick.

"Come here."

"All hail His Holy Flappiness and all his flappy glory!" the Zealot yelled. Then he turned and ran.

Inmates weren't supposed to run from him. They either fought or stood still. Running wouldn't do any good, anyway. Wash ran after him.

The little guy was fast. He'd been far enough from Wash to get a good head start, and he was very quick and nimble. Maybe it was just because he was so tiny. Or maybe it was because of those exercises he did in front of the Flag every morning. In any case, he was hard to catch.

Eventually he slowed down. Wash caught up and grabbed him by his collar.

"Got you. Now, what did you think you were doing?" Wash asked.

"Helping the prophet!" the zealot said, squirming a little.

"Helping who?"

"The prophet."

"Who's the prophet?"

"The prophet is the prophet," the Red Zealot insisted. Before Wash could beat the information out of him, he heard a crashing noise from the room they were standing in front of. Wash realised it was the temporary infirmary. Where they kept O'Malley.

What's that psycho doing this time? Wash didn't let go of the zealot's collar. Instead, he felt around his belt and located his keys. He still had the infirmary keys, both for the regular one and the temporary one. York had never managed to take them off him. He unlocked the door and walked in.

He realised what O'Malley had broken immediately. The ceiling light. O'Malley had smashed it. The only light source was from the lights in the corridor outside. Even that caused Wash to get nervous.

He meant to back out and leave O'Malley for someone else to deal with. But then the door shut behind him, leaving him in the dark. And then O'Malley tackled him. At the same time, the Red Zealot slipped out of his jacket, leaving Wash gripping the collar of a piece of orange fabric, and attacked him, too.

Normally, he could stand up to those two easily. They weren't the strongest of inmates. But that wasn't what scared him. He was in the dark. In the dark. He couldn't be in the dark. He just couldn't. No way. Not in the dark. He couldn't be there. He couldn't.

Especially not with O'Malley.

Wash panicked. He tried to fight back, but he couldn't see where they were. He couldn't see his attackers. He could only feel them.

Wash's punches were all over the place, driven by panic. They did nothing. One of his attackers shoved him. He hit the wall. Hands grabbed his wrists.

"Give me the screwdriver."

He felt something pointy poke his throat.

"Well, now. Doesn't this feel familiar, David?" O'Malley breathed. He was close. Wash could feel the psycho's breath on his face. It did feel familiar. It felt too familiar. Wash wasn't in a basement and he wasn't tied to a chair, but this was still too similar to the memories. And his mind was quickly filling in the details that weren't like the memories. Like the constant low growling that he would have heard in the corner.

He could practically hear it now. That quiet snarling. A sure sign that the Meta was prowling the room, perhaps holding a knife but more often than not he'd just use his hands for torturing... why use instruments when his hands would do...

Wash froze. The fear was pooling in his stomach and rose in his throat. It burned. There was something sharp at his throat but that was nothing compared to how dark it was, it was so dark, he couldn't be there, he just couldn't!

"You're breathing quicker. I see you're still scared," O'Malley purred. Quick as a flash, he grabbed something from Wash's hands. The keys. He took the keys. "I'd love to stick around and reenact fond, old memories, but I have somewhere to be." Wash heard the clinking sound of the keys, and the hands gripping his wrists moved away. O'Malley was still there, so the zealot must be the one moving around.

Wash's frozen state vanished. He attacked again, grabbing O'Malley's throat.

"You sick bastard!" Wash hissed. "You're a sick fuck who needs to be put down. Fuck Wyoming and fuck finding the others. I'll find them myself. Don't need you. You need to be put down."

"No doubt about that, David," O'Malley choked out. "But this isn't the day for it." He slashed at him with the screwdriver. O'Malley couldn't see either, so it was just a shallow gash, but it was enough for O'Malley to roll away.

Suddenly there was light. The zealot had opened the door. O'Malley quickly made it to the exit before saying one more thing.

"I might not have time to relieve the old memories. But you'll have plenty of time. Have fun." He slammed the door.

Wash got to his feet, one hand holding his stomach. He was bleeding, but not much. That didn't matter. It was dark. It was too dark, there were no windows and it was dark! He was shaking and it wasn't from blood loss.

He tried to open the door. It was locked. O'Malley had locked it.

"O'Malley. You open this door! Right now! Open it! Open this fucking door!" Wash shook the door desperately. The panic was rising again. "O'Malley! Open it! Open it! Open it!" By now he was shrieking. "Open the fucking door!"

It wasn't quite complete darkness. There was one small source of light. It shone from the tiny gap underneath the door. Wash dropped to his knees and tried to peer through it. He couldn't see anything. But it was there. Small as it was, there was still light.

Just like a nightlight at home. That was what Wash told himself. He told himself it was just light the night light at home. Just like at home. He didn't have to be scared. It was just like at home. But even so, he was still shaking. He was still afraid.

He needed to get out. Wash backed up a little and started to ram the door with his shoulder. It couldn't hold forever.

* * *

"Well. That actually went much smoother than I thought it would," O'Malley said. "Most likely won't hold him forever, but it'll work for long enough. Where's Wyoming?"

"He is near the entrance to the source of light, oh prophet."

"Of course he is."

"Did I do well? Did I prove myself? I did everything you asked, oh prophet. May I touch the symbol of faith?" the Red Zealot asked, staring at O'Malley's hair with a look of fascinated reverence.

"Not now! Only if we escape the, erm... purgatory. Yes. Do you have the time?"

The Red Zealot checked his watch. It was a cheap two-dollar watch made out of colourful plastic. Wyoming had acquired a few for this escape plan. Time was of the essence.

"Fifteen past twelve, oh prophet!"

"Then we have enough time." O'Malley twirled the set of keys he'd taken off Wash around his finger for a moment before slipping them into his pocket. "You stay ahead and warn me about any guards."

They had to avoid guards a couple of times, but much less than if it'd been a regular day. A few minutes later (the Red Zealot's watch read 12:23) they saw both Wyoming and Andy waiting around in the corridor, along with three more zealots. Near the door that led to the engine room. Andy was fidgeting impatiently. Wyoming looked calm as always.

"About goddamn time," Andy said. "You got the keys or have you already fucked up?"

O'Malley didn't answer, he just pulled out the keys and twirled them around his finger.

"Oh yeah, great. Only took you forever. I'll be back in a minute." Andy turned around, ran down the corridor and disappeared around the corner.

"He complains about us wasting his time and then runs off?" O'Malley grumbled.

"He is very inconsiderate, prophet. Shall I sacrifice him to the flag?" the Red Zealot asked.

"Now, really. Did you expect him to stand around in open sight with a bag of explosives?" Wyoming said. "He'll be back in a moment. Now, I trust you won't get distracted on the way out?"

"No, actually. I feel quite good." O'Malley didn't mention that it was probably because of the changes to his medication that the woman had made. Apparently she was actually competent when it came to medicine. His hands had been shaking less since she took the job, though they hadn't stopped entirely.

"Excellent. We have a schedule to keep." Wyoming was holding one of the cheap watches. "At twelve thirty, Andy will destroy whatever keeps the electricity running in there. I don't know what it is, equipment has probably changed since my prison guard days. But it won't be indestructible. The electricity going out, combined with Miller and his little cronies starting a riot in the cafeteria and the other zealots setting off explosions in the yard and near the walls... it's going to be wonderfully chaotic. Enough to distract most of the guards and give us a rather good chance at escape. Exciting, eh?"

"Can't deny that."

Andy returned, carrying a plastic bag of homemade explosives. Made of relatively everyday ingredients, ones that could be smuggled into the prison (or snuck out of the kitchen, in some cases) without so much as a raised eyebrow.

"You sure you can't tell me what the stuff I'm supposed to fuck up looks like?" Andy asked.

"Sadly, I can't. If there are doubts, just blow up whatever looks most expensive," Wyoming said.

Andy grinned widely. "Aye aye, Captain. Unlock the door already."

O'Malley had to test a few keys. By the time he found the right one, it was 12:27.

"Hurry up. You got three minutes," O'Malley said. "You mess up, I will personally make you wish you didn't."

"Alright, no need to get too heavy on the death threats. What are you, a prison guard?" Andy shut the door behind him.

"We should move fast. We want to be near the cafeteria when the riot starts," Wyoming said.

* * *

As Church walked through the cafeteria, holding his tray tightly and watching out for anyone who might try and trip him for a cheap laugh (the prison could be like elementary school in that way) he could very clearly hear Donut and Caboose's conversation.

"I do not understand."

"How can you not understand? It's really simple," Donut insisted. "Jetpacks are a valued commodity in the Kingdom of Grey Stone. They let people fly around. It's badass."

"But a wizard would be able to fly with magic," Caboose said stubbornly. "He would not need a jetpack."

"Not until his magic contract wears out. Or else he would be able to leave the kingdom, and he's not allowed to do that yet."

"Why?"

"I don't know, ask the magician. Besides, jetpacks are still more awesome than wings. Wings are for sissies and angels. And they'd make it so hard to find clothes that fit."

"And I thought Grif and Simmons' conversations were stupid," Church muttered as he walked past.

"Hey! We're right here! And fights between Batman and Spiderman are the opposite of stupid," Simmons claimed. "As long as you know Batman would win."

"Bullshit, dude. Spiderman," Grif said.

"You never go for Batman. It's because of your fear of bats, isn't it?"

"That's got nothing to do with it!"

As soon as he heard Church, Caboose immediately dropped his spoon and covered his eyes. He'd taken to doing that whenever Church was nearby, maybe so Church couldn't scream at him about how fucked up he was. Donut patted him on the shoulder before glaring at Church.

"Don't you have someone else to sit with?"

"Obviously not. You think I'd still be sitting here if I did?" Church sat down as far away as he could manage while staying at the same table. "I'm not sitting on my own. There's people that want to kick my ass everywhere. Fucking everywhere!"

"Including here," Grif pointed out.

"Yeah, but you're not acting on it." Church poked at his food grumpily. Not that he ever stopped hating the prison, but he really despised the place as of recently. He'd forgotten how bad it was to be in this place without people you didn't hate the company of.

He glanced at the cafeteria line. He could see Tucker there, lining up to get his food. He quickly looked down again. He wasn't going to be caught looking. Wasn't like he missed the douchebag. Well, he sort of did. But he wasn't going to be caught looking. No, wait. Donut had seen him looking. God fucking dammit.

"What? You going to go on about your stupid 'prison needs more love' thing again?" Church muttered. Donut snorted.

"Oh yeah, so you can start mindfu—" Donut cut off mid-swear and covered Caboose's ears. "Start mindfucking Tucker over as well? No, I've given up on that whole thing. Prison does need more love, that's true. But not from you." He let go of Caboose's ears and went back to his food, returning to talking about jetpacks.

Church rolled his eyes before looking around again. He noticed Sarge walking around with some guy in a suit. Probably the inspector guy. Sarge was gesturing around at the prisoners, and even from over here Church could hear the word 'dirtbags' crop up several times.

He looked back at the cafeteria line. And his stomach dropped slightly. Miller was in the line as well. Holding an empty tray, and sidling past others in the line. He was moving towards Tucker. Church looked around for Tex. Tex said she'd keep an eye out on him, as long as she was in the room it would be fine. And she was, leaning against the wall on the other side of the room.

_There's nothing to worry about. If Miller starts anything, Tex will stop it. She may be on the other side of the room, but she'll stop it. Nothing bad is going to happen._

Just as Church thought that, there was a distant noise. Like when you light a match, but a hundred times louder.

Then the lights flickered once, twice, and then they shut off.

Before hell broke loose, Church's last thought was '_I just jinxed it, didn't I?_'


	117. Chapter 109: Well, Shit

**Chapter One-Hundred And Nine: Well, Shit.**

Tucker had no clue what was going on.

One second, he was standing in line waiting for the angry cafeteria guy to serve his bowl of mystery meat. The next second, the lights had gone off. And before he even had time to process that, he was tackled into the nearest table by Miller.

"Ow, fuck!"

Tucker rolled off the table and crawled underneath it, still clutching his food tray. In the short time that had taken, the entire cafeteria had exploded into a riot. It had happened fast. Way too fast, even for prison standards. And even with the riot going on, he could hear faint bangs going off outside, along with the sound of screaming and general panic.

"Miller, what the fuck?" Tucker yelled. Miller crouched and pulled out a shiv that he'd been hiding in his jacket pocket.

"No-one's going to help you, Tucker. And I've waited far too fucking long for this."

Tucker scrambled back, holding up a hand. "Okay, okay, you're still pissed off at the whole Joannes-Jones-whatever thing. But, come on. You really going to kill me in the middle of the cafeteria?"

"Why not? Guards are distracted, and it's dark enough so that they'll barely see it anyway." He was right. There were windows in the cafeteria, but they were small and high up. It was possible to see, but only just. The guards would barely be able to tell who was who. "You're going to Hell, boy. And then Joannes can kick your ass again himself when you get there."

"Come on, Miller! I've told you before, it was an accident! Wasn't what you did to my lungs bad enough?" Tucker edged back further, moving out from underneath the table. "I didn't mean to fuck things up, can't we just call it square?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

Tucker got to his feet. And then he bolted. Before he could put enough distance between them, Miller tackled him again, this time wrapping his arms around his neck and getting him in a headlock.

"You're not escaping! Not this time! I'm not giving up until you're buried six feet under!"

_Well, shit._

Tucker wriggled out of the headlock and, much like in the last riot, smashed Miller in the face with his tray. But Miller didn't let up. He just came charging at him again.

_This is going to suck balls._

* * *

"What's the situation in there, zealot?" Wyoming called. The Red Zealot was peering through the doorway, trying to stay out of sight.

"Chaos! It's pure chaos! A sea of seething orange!" the zealot yelled.

"Most excellent." Wyoming made a motion for them all to move forwards. "Through the cafeteria, then."

"And what do we do if any guards see us? They know I'm not supposed to be out of my little cage!" O'Malley hissed.

"They won't if we stay low. We just have to swallow our pride and crawl like rats across the floor! Tally ho!" Wyoming dropped to his knees and crawled into the cafeteria, quickly taking shelter under one of the tables. O'Malley sighed before crawling after him. Of all the escapes, crawling across the floor wasn't the most interesting. It was too much like a game of make-believe that one would play when they were a toddler. But the most interesting options weren't always practical.

Crawling was also very undignified. Partly because, again, it was too reminiscent of childhood. And the other reason being that both fists and food were flying through the air. It was messy.

"_O'Malley!_"

A juice box bounced off O'Malley's head. More annoying than painful. O'Malley looked behind him to see Lopez moving towards him, looking furious.

"Ah. My old minion. I don't suppose you decided to join me again, did you? You never did kill off that tongue-biting pastry for me."

"_No. I'm here to do this._"

Then Lopez punched him in the face.

* * *

Like a sane person, the first thing Donut did once the riot started was hide under the table. He was quickly joined by Grif, Simmons and Caboose. Church hadn't had the chance to hide, because one of the inmates had decided to start hitting him with a lunch tray.

"Ow! Fuck off, douchebag!" Church yelled, trying to shield himself against the tray with his arms. It wasn't working well. The inmate just kept hitting him. Which Donut, at the moment, was pretty okay with. But Caboose reached out and grasped the inmate's ankle.

"Do not do that," Caboose said quietly. The inmate looked down and went pale.

"Don't crush my head! Don't break my fingers! Please!" The inmate ran off, still waving around the lunch tray. Church crawled underneath the table as well.

"Should have just left him," Donut muttered.

"That man was one of Miller's friends," Caboose said. "I have seen him before. When I was making Miller not hurt people anymore."

"I think he's breaking that rule," Grif said, sticking his head out from underneath the table. "He and Tucker are duking it out over there. I don't like his chances, really. Tucker's got a lunch tray. Miller has something pointy."

"He'll be fine! Tex'll deal with it!" Church said, his voice cracking a little.

"Huh. Sure, whatever you want to believe."

"Come back here!"

"Excuse me, chaps!" Wyoming squeezed underneath the table, crawling between Donut and Grif before moving on.

"Oh yes, just go crawling right by my enemies. Wonderful." O'Malley crawled towards them. Even just that was enough for Caboose to yelp and hide his face in his arms. Rather than just go through them, however, O'Malley turned and scrambled around the table. "You're lucky I don't have time for fun, pastry!"

Donut let out a sigh of relief as O'Malley crawled off after Wyoming and the zealots made their way past. "Cool. I was worried for a second."

"_Stop him, you fruitcake! Stop O'Malley!_" Lopez forced his way past them, also crawling. It was the fastest method of movement at the moment, as there was too much fighting going on to walk without getting knocked over.

"O'Malley? Wait a second, that guy was O'Malley?" Simmons asked. "I thought he'd be... bigger, at least."

"And we don't even have weapons with us," Grif lamented. "You ready?"

"Seems like this will be our best chance."

Grif and Simmons quickly performed a fist bump before going after O'Malley as well.

"No, wait! Guys! Don't go after him! He'll stab you! Just wait it out!" Donut yelled. "Fuck. Guys!"

Well, he couldn't just let Grif and Simmons run—or crawl—off to get stabbed.

"Caboose, you can stay here."

"Private Biscuit?"

Donut started crawling in the direction that the others had gone. Although he had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to regret this.

* * *

During this conversation, including when O'Malley and his minions went by, Church hadn't really been paying attention. He'd been trying to spot Tex. She couldn't be that far away. She could reach Tucker. He'd be fine. Tex was a freaking badass shark woman, she could easily do it.

That would have been true if the room was brighter and if there wasn't a fucking riot going on around them. In this mess, Church couldn't see Tex even though he knew where she'd been when the lights went off. And the chances of Tex seeing Tucker from the other side of the room and getting to him before Miller could do damage were really slim. As in 'bordering-on-anorexic' slim.

Hell, Church could barely see them. And he was much closer. But he could just make out Tucker flailing around with a lunch tray.

He only realised that O'Malley had gone charging past when Donut crawled off, trying to convince Grif and Simmons to stay back. Caboose was still there, staring after Donut and looking confused and worried.

Caboose could easily make it to Tucker. He was a freaking bulldozer.

"Okay, Caboose. I take back everything I said. You're not the backstabbing traitor, it was a douchey thing to say," Church lied quickly. "But I kind of need your help right now. Like, I really fucking need it."

Caboose looked between him and where Donut had crawled off to. Back and forth. Back and forth. And then he shook his head.

"I am sorry." That was all he said before he went after Donut. Church was really regretting snapping at Caboose now.

He turned back in time to see Tucker's lunch tray get knocked out of his hands.

_Fuck. This is so going to get me killed._

Church clambered out from underneath the table and started to run. Never mind the fact that people were fighting all around him, and in some cases aiming blows at him. Never mind that it hurt like hell. Fuck that shit. There were more important things to do.

* * *

"How many people are following us?" Wyoming asked, not looking behind him. "How many, zealot?"

"Uh..." the Red Zealot quickly glanced behind him. He was the furthest behind. "Four. No, five. There is one further back. But four nearby! Including the washer of cloth!"

"Lovely. An excuse to get rid of him. Stop whoever is following us," O'Malley growled. "And kill the pastry."

"Pastry?"

"The washer of cloth!"

"The washer of cloth?! But... but he is the washer of cloth!" the Red Zealot protested. "He who cleanses fabric! It is a sacred profession!"

"I don't care what he is! Get rid of him!"

"But—"

"It's a test of faith! Do you want to be damned to Blue Hell?" O'Malley yelled.

"Never!"

"Then do what I say!"

The Red Zealot closed his eyes briefly. "Yes, prophet. Followers of the Flag!" he yelled to the zealots that were with him. "Stop the men that try to prevent our escape from this purgatory! And destroy the washer of cloth!" Under his breath, he added, "Flag forgive us."

* * *

"Guys, this is crazy! Just let him go and do whatever he's doing! This is stupid!" Donut said, once he was close enough to Grif and Simmons.

"But he's a douchebag!" Grif protested.

"Now's the best time," Simmons added.

"But it's suicidal! He has crazy flag worshipers following him! And he probably has something pointy on hand! Oh, crap..."

Three out of four of the zealots had stopped crawling ahead and turned around. Only their leader kept following O'Malley.

"Down with the infidels! Down with the cloth washer!" one of them yelled. "It is the will of the Flag!"

"It feels wrong! That's the cloth washer! And that one has hair of the holy colour! Just like the prophet!" another one whispered, gesturing at Simmons.

"It is the will of the Flag!" the first one repeated. All three pulled shivs out of their jackets. Then they attacked. One attacked Lopez, seeing as he was closest to catching O'Malley. Another attacked Grif, while the third tackled Donut.

"Get off me!" Donut yelled, kicking and slapping at the zealot clinging to him, while trying to keep the shiv as far away from him as possible.

"Never!"

"Muffin Man!" Catching up to them, Caboose pulled the zealot off Donut easily. However, he didn't seem to know what to do after that. He just kind of held the zealot's wrist while looking puzzled. Since the zealot attacking Grif was having little success, due to Simmons hitting him repeatedly over the head with a lunch tray that had been lying around, Caboose turned to the one trying to pin Lopez to the ground and slapped him over the head, distracting him from his original target. Lopez didn't say a word, he just immediately went after O'Malley again.

"That was not very nice," Caboose said to the two zealots.

"He's too strong! He's the Anti-Flag!" one of the zealots yelped, trying to pull his wrist out of Caboose's grip. He slashed at his arm with the shiv, making Caboose yelp, but it only served to make him annoyed.

"Stop that!" Caboose twisted his wrist lightly. "Muffin Man! Hide somewhere safe! Things are bad and stabby!"

"What about you?"

"I will be okay. I am always okay after I get attacked." Caboose frowned at the zealots. "I am more worried about them. I do not want to hurt people again."

"No time for this!" Simmons complained. He and Grif had managed to take down the third zealot, kicking his shiv away so that it was lost among the rioting crowd. "Let's go!" He crawled off, followed by Grif.

"Guys! I told you to stop!" Donut protested. "Jeez." He made to crawl after them.

"You do not have to follow them. You might get hurt," Caboose said gently. Though the gentleness was offset by the fact that he was still trying to fight three flag zealots at once.

"I'll be fine. Can't let friends get stabbed. You'll be fine, right?"

"Yes."

"Alright. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Okay, Captain Buttermuffin."

As Donut went after the others again, he heard Caboose trying to ward off the zealots with threats concerning toast.

* * *

Church quickly lost count of how many times fists or trays hit him as he tried to reach Tucker. How many people were rioting right now? And how long was it taking the guards to contain it? Normally the gas would have gone off by now. But either that was controlled by something electrical or it was too dark for the guards to find whatever it was.

He felt dizzy. Too many smacks to the head with trays. Didn't matter. He was getting closer. He was getting closer. He would get there in time and Tucker would be fi—

He heard a scream. Church tried to see what was happening through the dizziness. Miller had tackled Tucker to the ground and had him pinned, one knee jammed into Tucker's chest. He was holding a shiv and yelling for Tucker to stop jerking around.

Church couldn't see what Miller was doing to him. He could only see Tucker's legs. But the shiv was bloody. And Tucker was screaming. Church's stomach tightened.

"Tucker!" Church yelled. Miller heard him and turned around. His grip was clearly slipping on the shiv. Even after all these years, his hands still looked like Playdoh and were just as useful.

"Shit." Miller turned back. "Fine, going to flail around like that? Then the other eye goes, too." He slashed again, but Church couldn't see what Miller was attacking. He could just hear the shrieking. "Stay still! You're just making it worse for yourself, turd!"

"Miller! Back off!" Church was just a table away. Almost there. "You've got one chance to back off!"

"Fuck off, Church! I have no beef with you, despite what your ape did to me." The fingers holding the shiv twitched. "Fuck off!"

"You fuck off!" Church reached them. He pulled his fist back and smashed it into the back of Miller's head. Miller was forced to roll off Tucker and Church was given a clear view of him. He couldn't see the wounds Miller had made because Tucker was covering them with his hands. His hands were over his eyes. Blood was trickling through the fingers and Tucker was screaming so much that he hadn't even heard Church or Miller speaking.

Any hope that 'the other eye goes' had been a metaphor just went flying out the window.

"You sick fuck! ...Fuck!" Church yelled.

"Didn't mean to. Not the first eye, at least. He kept thrashing around. And it's hard to attack with hands like this, you know. Blame your pet monkey! If it wasn't for him, I'd be able to make the death a lot quicker!" Miller growled. "Besides, Tucker deserved it and more!"

"Lost your chance, Miller!" Church lunged at him, for that moment completely forgetting that Miller was holding a very sharp weapon. The shiv hit his side, tearing through cloth and skin. But the anger and adrenaline was so strong that Church barely noticed. "Lost it. You lost it. No more chances. Never again."

The fight was short. Church punched Miller in the face one, two, three times. While Miller was disorientated, Church grabbed the shiv from his hand. With Miller's grip, it wasn't too hard to wrench it from his grip.

"No. No, not now," Miller pleaded as Church grabbed his head, jerked his head back. "I'm too close, you can't—"

"Never. Again."

With one swing he dragged the shiv across Miller's throat.

Warm blood gushed onto the front of Church's jacket. Church was suddenly reminded of his first murder, twenty-five years ago. That had happened the same way. He'd cut out his father's throat as well. And, just like with that murder, it took a few moments for Church's mind to catch up with his actions.

Oh shit. He'd done it. He'd killed. He'd promised Tex he wouldn't. She had threatened Eddie. And he'd thrown that promise away. The adrenaline was winding down, replaced by panic. The pain of being sliced in the side and smashed over the head repeatedly with trays was also catching up to him.

"Shit." Church held his side and crawled back to Tucker. He was screaming less now, but it seemed more like Tucker had stopped because he'd run out of breath. He still had his eyes covered. "Tucker! Tucker, you... are you okay?" That seemed like a retarded question in retrospect. His eyes had just been slashed. Of course he wasn't okay.

The riot was still raging around them. But Church still heard Tucker answer.

"Church?" Tucker removed one hand from his eyes. Church couldn't stop himself from swearing as he saw the mangled eyes uncovered. They were drenched in blood and tears and barely recognisable as ever being eyes. Tucker was never going to see again.

"Yeah. It's me."

"Miller. He's... Is he..."

"Dead."

"Shit. You... but... Tex... Eddie..."

"I know." Church removed his jacket, hissing in pain as the cloth brushed the wound in his side. "I'll figure something out." He ripped the sleeve off. "Move your hands, I'm trying to stop the bleeding."

Church caught a brief glimpse of the other eye before he pressed the cloth to both. It was just as messed up as the first one.

"It's... it's bad, right?" First coherent sentence Tucker had managed.

"No shit." Church was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Too many blows. Too much blood loss. He wobbled, but managed to stay awake. Tucker felt him wobble.

"You hurt?"

"It's nothing," Church mumbled. Tucker didn't seem to believe him. His hands reached out and touched Church's undershirt. The fingers skimmed along the fabric. He was checking for wounds the only way he could without eyesight. It felt weird, but not in a bad way. At least until Tucker accidentally poked at the wound. "Ah fuck!"

"Man up." Tucker bunched up the undershirt and pressed it to injury. "Shit, man. You're bleeding like crazy. What're you tending to me for?"

"You need it."

"You need it more."

"Bullshit." Church's eyes kept shutting. "Fuck. Tired." Tucker waved his free hand through the air. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to stop you from sleeping. I missed your face."

"That was lame."

"Shut the fuck up."

* * *

"Finally." Wyoming crawled through the other cafeteria door. As soon as he was out of sight of the cafeteria, he got to his feet and started running. O'Malley and the Red Zealot followed suit. The Red Zealot still looked troubled, a far cry from his usual hyperactive self. "Almost there."

"I think you could have chosen a better way than through the cafeteria," O'Malley muttered.

"Not my fault you had to get locked away in the infirmary. If not for that, we could have just met here!"

"_O'Malley!_"

"Gah, he's so irritatingly persistent. I thought you sent people to stop them!" O'Malley snarled at the Red Zealot.

"I did!"

Wyoming frowned. So many people following them around. Well, not following him. They were only after O'Malley.

Lopez was fast. Fast enough to catch up to O'Malley when they weren't crawling. He dodged the zealot and grabbed O'Malley around the neck. The Red Zealot pulled a shiv from his jacket.

"Release the prophet!" he screamed. Lopez completely ignored him, focused on O'Malley.

"_You will pay for what you did to my wife!_"

"What did you do this time, chap?" Wyoming sighed, coming to a halt. O'Malley had the keys, it wouldn't do any good to leave him behind.

"I'm not even sure." O'Malley wriggled out of Lopez's grip and pulled his screwdriver out. "Now, Lopez. Don't do anything stupid. Minions aren't exactly known for intelligence, but even so... you don't want to fight me."

"We're running out of time," Wyoming pointed out.

"I know that, fool!"

The zealot had tried to help O'Malley, but he'd been attacked from behind by Simmons, who wrestled the shiv out of the zealot's hand before he could even react. Grif showed up immediately after, out of breath from the massive effort of crawling across a floor and running a few metres.

They were so persistent. O'Malley really drew far too much heat.

"Turn around." O'Malley kept telling them not to fight, but he said it in a half-mocking way. Like he wouldn't mind it if they kept attacking. As long as he got to carve them like a Thanksgiving turkey. Even in the circumstances, he couldn't completely suppress the bloodlust.

Simmons handed the shiv he'd taken to Grif, still pinning the zealot to the ground. Grif grabbed it and, after exchanging a quick fist bump with Simmons, approached O'Malley.

"You're completely fucked," Grif said, grinning.

"Can you hand me the keys once you're finished?" Wyoming asked.

"Traitor!" O'Malley yelled.

"I'm being practical, my friend."

"Hmph."

* * *

O'Malley edged backwards, pointing his screwdriver at Grif. Then Lopez. Back and forth. Grif tried to get O'Malley to aim it away from him for more than two seconds with the power of his mind, but it didn't work. "So, is it going to be like that? What a pity."

"Shun the non-believers!" the Red Zealot chirped from underneath Simmons.

"Shut up, zealot! You're being completely useless!" O'Malley yelled. "The flag would be very disappointed in you!"

"Disappointed? No, have mercy!" the Red Zealot yelled, flailing his arm around in some strange attempt to fight back.

O'Malley focused on Grif. Probably because he was the one holding the shiv. "I don't believe we've even met. What do you stand to gain?"

"You attacked a guy who reminds me of a sixteen-year-old girl," Grif said. "Not cool."

"Oh. The pastry. Why do so many seem to like that little sugarpuff?" O'Malley pointed the screwdriver at Lopez, who was trying to edge around O'Malley. Attempting to find a good way to attack that wouldn't get him shanked. "I really would give it up before something happens."

"I can't disappoint the Flag..." the Red Zealot murmured.

Wyoming was just watching with a mixed look of impatience and amusement. "Can't you hurry it up?"

"Attack on the count of three?" Grif muttered.

"Sooner," Lopez replied.

"On three or after three?" Simmons asked.

"On three. It's always faster to go on three."

No-one noticed the Red Zealot squirming enough to reach underneath him until it was too late.

"You will not trap us in this purgatory! For the Flag!" the Red Zealot screamed, pulling out another shiv, one that Simmons hadn't noticed he carried. And he immediately plunged it into Simmons' stomach.

"Simmons? Shit, Simmons?!"

Simmons let out a short scream that was quickly cut off. And even as Grif turned away from O'Malley and ran at them, the Red Zealot started to drag the shiv across Simmons' stomach.

"Sacrifice through blood. Sacrifice through blood," the Red Zealot murmured, dragging the shiv slowly. Whenever the shiv jerked, hitting something it couldn't easily cut through, Simmons twitched. It was the only movement he made. His face was twisted. At the same time, he looked confused. Like he wasn't sure what was happening. Only sure that it hurt like living Hell.

"Stop! Stop!" Grif screamed. "Stop!" Why was it taking him so long to reach them? It felt like it was taking years, even though he'd only been running for a couple of seconds.

Just as Grif got close enough to do something, the zealot jerked the shiv out, tearing Simmons' stomach open like a paper bag. Blood gushed out and intestines threatened to do the same. Simmons grabbed at his stomach, eyes still wide and disbelieving, before hitting the floor.

Grif stared. _No. It couldn't be. This couldn't have happened. Not to Simmons. Anyone but Simmons._

Things slowed down for that moment. It didn't matter that Lopez was attacking O'Malley. O'Malley just didn't matter at all now. It didn't matter that Wyoming was there, watching Lopez and O'Malley roll around on the floor with mild amusement. None of that mattered. What mattered was that Simmons was bleeding... Simmons was dying... and the one responsible was just standing there. Staring down at his own shiv and looking puzzled.

"He had the symbol of faith," the Red Zealot murmured. "But he attacked. He was trying to stop the prophet. He was a traitor. So why can't I feel the flagpole's light?"

Grif felt numb. There was one thought in his head. He turned on the zealot, who was still transfixed at the sight of his own shiv.

"You... you..." That was all Grif could choke out. Then he lunged forward and tackled the zealot to the ground. Holding the first shiv that Simmons had removed from the zealot's grip, he brought it down and stabbed the zealot in the chest. He felt something splinter and the shiv scrape against something hard, likely bone, and the zealot screamed and dropped his own shiv. But it wasn't enough. Grif pulled the shiv out and stabbed again. Again. Again. Then, the fifth and final time, Grif stabbed him in the chest once more, twisted the shiv and left it there. He turned away and started to crawl back to Simmons.

"I can't feel its light..." he heard the Red Zealot whisper. "Did I... did I do something wrong?" That was all Grif heard from him.

"Simmons... Just... Just hang on," Grif whispered. He pressed his hands to Simmons' stomach. He didn't think about it. He was on autopilot. He wasn't thinking. He was just doing.

The blood had soaked Simmons' jacket through already. Grif could feel squishy things that shouldn't be outside the body. It smelt like a mix between copper and a public bathroom. Grif couldn't hold it all in with his hands.

Simmons was still conscious. His fingers were twitching. His eyes were rolling, like he was going insane from the pain.

"Stop bleeding. Stop bleeding, goddammit," Grif choked out. He could still hear Lopez and O'Malley fighting behind him. He distantly heard Donut yell. It didn't matter. Simmons was still bleeding. "Stop it. You're... you're not allowed to do this! Stop it!"

"Grif! What... what happened?! What—oh my god!" Donut dropped to his knees next to Simmons. "Simmons, he... how..."

"Do something," Grif said thickly. Donut stared at him.

"What? Grif, I—"

"I don't know what to do... There has to be something! There can't... there can't just... help him! There has to be a way! There's no way he can just—"

"Grif, I... I don't think there's anything I can do..."

"G-Grif..." Simmons rasped.

"Simmons! Hold on, man! Don't... don't die..." Grif pleaded. Simmons stared up at him. His face was still twisted in pain. He looked like he was fighting to say something.

"Don't..." Simmons mouthed something, maybe convinced he was actually speaking. Only one more coherent word came out. "Fatass..."

"Simmons? Come on... stay awake... please..." Grif kept trying to hold Simmons together. But stuff just kept flowing past his fingers. He couldn't do anything...

Simmons let out another noise that might have been an attempt at words. Then he stopped trying to talk. Then he stopped breathing.

"Simmons? Simmons?! I said stay awake! Stay with me, Simmons! Stay with me! Simmons! ...Simmons?"

* * *

Donut had only been a couple of minutes behind. He still couldn't run. He could move without falling over, but he was still slow. Considering that, being a couple of minutes behind wasn't so bad.

And yet...

In those two minutes, he'd screwed up simply by not being there. He'd arrived too late. Now all he could do was numbly watch as Grif tried to stop Simmons' innards from falling out, still insisting that he wasn't going to die.

All he could do was stare. Donut's eyes moved from Grif and Simmons to the Red Zealot, who was sprawled on the ground with a shiv sticking out of his chest. He wasn't moving, either. Then his eyes traveled over to Wyoming, who was just standing there looking both amused and annoyed. And finally his eyes landed on Lopez and O'Malley. Lopez was punching every inch of O'Malley he could reach, trying whenever he could to grab O'Malley's screwdriver off him. O'Malley looked like he was just trying to get away.

_What was going on? Why didn't it make any sense?_

Donut was snapped out his strange trance by a clinking sound. Lopez had gotten O'Malley on the ground and his hands around the man's throat. As Lopez tried to throttle him, he shook O'Malley enough for something to come tumbling out of his pocket, making the clinking sound. Immediately, Wyoming lunged forward and grabbed the fallen item. Keys.

"Thanks very much for allowing me to go ahead! If you can catch up, old chap, you're welcome to join me!" Wyoming said cheerfully. Then he bolted.

O'Malley snarled. It might have been intended as a coherent sentence, but Lopez still had his hands around his throat. He stabbed at Lopez with the screwdriver, hitting him in the shoulder. It was enough to make Lopez let go of him.

Donut's mind had slowed down. It was stuck on keys. Keys. Why would O'Malley have keys? Only the guards needed keys around here. It clicked. He was using them to escape. That's where he was running.

An escape plan. This was all for a stupid escape plan.

"Simmons... Simmons..."

Donut stared back at Simmons. Grif had buried his face in Simmons' blood-soaked jacket, and was cradling him and sobbing and just repeating Simmons' name over and over like it would bring him back.

Something snapped inside Donut.

"You... YOU DIRTY WHORE!"

* * *

O'Malley's plans had never gone so wrong before. Crawling through the cafeteria had seemed so simple a task. And yet it had resulted in him being surrounded by blood, bodies and an angry Hispanic man.

Not that O'Malley objected to being surrounded by blood and bodies, but in this situation? It was just irritating. And to top it off, Wyoming had run off with the keys. That traitor. If O'Malley managed to catch up with him, he was getting stabbed. A lot.

Still, he'd stopped Lopez. At least for the moment. But, then...

"You... YOU DIRTY WHORE!"

Donut grabbed the zealot's shiv off the ground and jumped at him, waving the shiv around like a maniac. O'Malley scrambled back. It wasn't too hard to stay out of Donut's reach. But Donut just kept heading towards him. And Lopez had moved around to block O'Malley's exit, though he was a little distracted by his bleeding shoulder.

O'Malley was trapped. Trapped by a former minion and a meringue.

That didn't sit well with him.

"You just keep coming, don't you? You're like lemmings charging off a cliff," O'Malley said. "You and the other fools. The one time I don't want to fight and suddenly you can't get enough of it!"

"All this just for a chance at escaping? Was the riot your fault, too? The electricity going out? Did you make this whole clusterfuck just so you could run off?" Donut demanded.

"No, I did it for completely warm, heartfelt reasons that are selfless and good for the world," O'Malley said sarcastically. "Why are you even surprised?"

"I don't know! I just am! I mean... Gah!" Donut charged forward again. This time, he actually managed to graze O'Malley's chest. It was only enough to slice his jacket up a little. And it left an opening for O'Malley to attack.

He attacked with his screwdriver, aiming for Donut's neck. However, Donut moved at the last second. O'Malley hit him in the upper back. Not wasting a moment, O'Malley grabbed Donut and slammed him into the wall, whipping the screwdriver up to his throat.

"Pity. I thought that rage might have been going somewhere," O'Malley whispered. He pressed the point of the screwdriver into the skin, making it bleed just a little. "Pathetic."

"_Yes. But this isn't._"

O'Malley felt something hit the back of his head. Lopez had pulled off his boot and smacked him with it as hard as possible. The moment of disorientation was enough for Lopez to grab his arms and twist them behind his back, forcing the screwdriver from his grip.

"Ah. Well played. Defeated by a boot. Boring but practical, I suppose," O'Malley said heavily. Donut was still pressed against the wall, holding his shiv. "What's next, then? Are you going to cut my throat out, little pastry?"

Donut didn't answer. But he did hold the shiv up to O'Malley's throat.

"Well. Can't say I'm shocked. I suppose anyone who gets defeated by a boot doesn't deserve an interesting death," O'Malley said bitterly. "Go ahead, then."

"That's it? Just 'go ahead?'" Donut said suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. "You don't care?"

"Of course I care. Death is probably even more boring than this hellhole," O'Malley said. "But I'm hardly in a position to fight against it. So go ahead. That is... if you can."

"If I can? I'm a convicted murderer!"

"In self-defence, wasn't it? You kept insisting on that. Why? To avoid the guilt of being a murderer? Because, of course, it's not murder if it's in self-defence, right?" O'Malley grinned at Donut. "You don't want that blood on your hands. It was self-defence. Well, if you'd stabbed me when I was attacking you... then yes. That would have been self-defence. But now I am completely defenceless. If you cut my throat out now... then that's murder." O'Malley tilted his chin up slightly, exposing his throat. "If you want that on your conscious... then who am I to stop you? Hitting the moral rock bottom is something of a relief, I've found."

Donut didn't move. He kept the shiv at O'Malley's throat. He didn't remove the shiv, but he didn't slash out his throat either.

"_Kill him!_" Lopez snarled.

"I... I..."

The pastry was hesitating. Fascinating. O'Malley had expected him to either completely back off or just get down to business and kill him. One or the other. But not the pastry. He was still hesitating.

Suddenly a light was shone at them. Not an electrical light. A flashlight. Squinting at the sudden brightness, O'Malley could just make out North's face.

"Jesus," North said faintly, shining a flashlight over the bloody mess. "Jesus... stop. Stop! Break it up right now!"

The noises from the cafeteria weren't as loud anymore. O'Malley distantly heard Sarge roaring for order. Things were calming down.

O'Malley's feelings were mixed. On one hand, he knew that Donut wouldn't kill him now. Not in front of a guard. Donut dropped the shiv as North got closer, yelling for some of the other guards. On the bright side, O'Malley would live another day.

On the bad side? He was still trapped here. He was still separated from Doc by stone walls. His plans had completely fallen apart.

* * *

Wyoming kept running. The voices and yelling soon faded behind him, although they didn't go entirely silent. He could still hear faint screams and the occasional gunshot.

He reached the visitor's room and unlocked the door, entering the room where the visitors and the inmates conversed with a sheet of glass between them. Right at the end of this room was a door that led past the glass. Only there so the guards didn't have to run the entire way around the prison just to enter the other part of the room.

It wasn't a visitor's day, so there was no-one there. There was no reason why there would be. Wyoming kept running. If this was anything like the prison he'd once worked at, then he'd be able to reach some form of exit through here.

And he did. He exited into a parking lot. He was still inside the walls, but there was a way out. A simple boom-gate, there simply to look like there was some sort of security. Sarge was too cheap to put up a proper gate in a place that most inmates would never even get close to.

Wyoming was so close. He could practically taste the freedom. All he had to do now is steal one of the cars lying around and drive away. Considering the average intelligence of the staff, one of them had probably left the keys in the—

A gunshot rang out.

Wyoming never even had a chance to finish that thought.

Flowers sighed and lowered his gun, staring out through the window of the booth that controlled the boom-gate.

"Why do they always try to escape through the parking lot," he muttered. He left the booth and approached Wyoming. He gently poked the body with his toe. No movement. Flowers turned him over with his foot. A bullet right through the head. Just like anyone else who tried to escape.

Flowers shook his head, tutting. "How depressing. His goods were keeping the prison morale so high..."


	118. Chapter 110: Aftermath

**Chapter One-Hundred And Ten: Aftermath**

Sarge stared out over the cafeteria. The entire place was a mess. Wherever you looked there were injured inmates. Some had got off lucky. Just bruises. Maybe a black eye. Then there were the ones who'd been slashed up. There was a fair share of blood on the floor, mixed in with the spilt food.

All in all, this inspection probably couldn't have gone worse.

Vic stood next to him, looking rather bemused. His suit was splattered with mystery meat stew.

"Dude," he said. "Duuuuuude."

"This isn't a normal occurrence!" Sarge rubbed the back of his head, still staring. "Great Caesar's Toast, what a fuckup."

The guards were ordering the inmates to get in line, trying to separate the seriously injured from the merely bruised. All of them were carrying flashlights, just to make sure they didn't miss anything.

"I told you, man, you gotta check the wires. If there ain't no spark... well, there ain't no spark. Know what I mean?" Vic said.

"I did get a guy to look at the wires! This was sabotage!" Sarge gestured at Tex, who was nearby. "Go check the wires, see what happened. Check for evidence that'll say what no-good dirtbag did this."

"Alright."

"Dude. I gotta tell you now. The brass ain't gonna like this," Vic said. "Chairman's gonna be flipping a lid. Gonna cook up an anger pancake. You follow?"

"Unfortunately, I do. We'll talk about this once all the scumbags are sorted out."

"Sarge!" North called out nervously from the cafeteria door. "We have a problem here. It's bloody and I can't... I can't get Grif to move."

Think you should see this. It's... it's really bloody. Like, super bloody. And I can't get everyone away from it. The chubby guy won't move."

"Of course he won't move, that lazy, no-good..."

* * *

"Grif. Grif, we have to move," Donut said quietly. He was trying not to look down. Looking at either Grif or Simmons was far too difficult. They were the only ones left besides the guards. O'Malley had been dragged off immediately once the guards had shown up, seeing as he was supposed to be locked up by himself anyway. And Lopez had gone to the cafeteria as soon as North had insisted on it.

Grif wouldn't budge. He still had his face buried in Simmons' shoulder, babbling at the corpse like he could still hear him.

"Grif, you... you can't do anything for him..." Donut tried to keep his voice steady. He couldn't fall apart now. One of them had to keep it together. And it wasn't going to be Grif. "The guards might get mad..." Donut tugged gently on Grif's arm, but Grif paid no attention to him. "Grif, please..."

"Why's it taking you so long just to drag that slacker out? I could do the—Satan's bunions, I think I just had a war flashback. Not the good kind, either." Sarge appeared, shining his flashlight over the mess. "Alright. If you're still alive, get moving. Into the cafeteria, move it."

"Grif, come on..."

"This shouldn't have happened..." Grif's voice was muffled. "This shouldn't have happened!"

"On your feet, dirtbag!" Sarge stooped, grabbed Grif by the collar of his jacket and tried to yank him up, away from Simmons. "Move it before I shoot you in the face."

"And where the fuck were you?" Grif suddenly snapped. "What the fuck were you doing?"

"Come again?"

"Why weren't you doing your goddamn job, Sarge?! If you'd been doing your job, this wouldn't have happened! It... Simmons..."

"You questioning how I run this place?"

Sarge's hand was a bit too close to his nightstick. Donut quickly moved between Sarge and Grif.

"Sarge, don't! Just... just don't, alright?"

"Okay then, Princess. But you better get him to the cafeteria in double time, or I'm gonna play a game of Whack-A-Grif."

"Yes, sir..." Donut put his hand on Grif's back. "I'm sorry, Grif. But you know that... that..." _Don't fall apart. Don't fall apart. _Donut took a couple of deep breaths, trying to keep himself under control, before continuing. "This isn't doing any good. And getting yourself knocked out by Sarge won't... won't help Simmons any. Please."

Grif grasped Simmons' hand tightly for a moment, staring at Simmons' face like he was still hoping for Simmons to blink and sit up. Like this was just some kind of fakeout. When no movement happened, Grif let go of Simmons' hand and slowly climbed to his feet. His ability to move seemed to end there, but he let Donut guide him towards the cafeteria and away from Simmons.

Entering the cafeteria didn't feel real. It was like something out of a dream. Or rather a fucked up nightmare. It was hard to believe that, half an hour ago, it had been neat, tidy and peaceful. Most of the inmates were gathered at one side of the room, so Donut headed that way, half-pushing Grif along. When they got nearer, however, York stopped them.

"Wait a second. You're bleeding really heavily there, Donut."

"What? Oh. Right." Donut had forgotten. Where O'Malley had stabbed him was throbbing a bit, but it was a weirdly detached pain. Didn't getting stabbed feel worse than this? "What do I do?"

"Go over there. We haven't figured out what to do with all of you yet, there's too many hurt." York gestured at another side of the room. The inmates over there seemed much more battered, and many were bleeding. "Most of the guys you hang around with are over there."

"Okay." Donut guided Grif towards the uninjured inmates. "Sorry. I'll be back as soon as possible."

Grif didn't reply. He didn't seem to be paying attention to his surroundings. Donut turned around and headed over to where the injured inmates were gathering.

He found Caboose quickly. Sitting and holding his arm. It looked like one of the zealots had managed to slash it open quite badly. He looked up as Donut approached.

"General Sprinkles!" He jumped to his feet and hugged Donut tightly, letting go of his injury to do so. "You are... aaah, you are hurt! I will help you."

"It's alright, it's alright! Pay attention to your own injuries first!" Donut insisted. Caboose looked down at his arm.

"Oh. Yes. Okay." Caboose sat down again. Donut sat next to him.

"So... You didn't kill anyone, did you?"

Caboose smiled brightly. "No! I did not! I think I broke one of their noses... but they are still alive. Oh, and General Sprinkles..." Caboose lowered his voice, smile fading. "Tucker has no eyes. It is creepy."

"He has... wait, what?"

"He has no eyes. Someone got something sharp and..." Caboose made a vague slashing motion. "But he is also still alive. See?" He pointed not far away. Church and Tucker were both sitting there. Tucker was holding a jacket to his eyes. Church looked a mixture of worried, pissed off and tired.

"Ouch."

"Yes." Caboose looked at Donut for a couple of moments, then frowned. "Something happened. You are... you are very unhappy." He looked around the room and his eyes landed on Grif. Then he looked around some more. "Grif is by himself?"

"Yeah..."

"But Grif is never without... Oh. Ohhh." The tone said that, for once, Caboose had caught on quickly. Donut was thankful for that. He couldn't handle talking about it right now.

Donut had been holding himself together mostly for Grif's sake. Now that he didn't have to do that, he buried his face in Caboose's shoulder and let himself cry.

* * *

A few minutes after Vic decided to walk around the room, checking how the guards were handling the crisis, Flowers walked into the cafeteria and headed straight for Sarge. He was dragging Andy along by his collar.

"Hey! Hey! I said I'd follow! Let go of my collar, buttnugget!" Andy yelled. His hands were severely burned.

"Here's the problem. It seems like he blew out our electricity," Flowers said calmly.

"What the—how in blazes did he get into the engine room?!" Sarge roared.

"I think I might have the answer to that. Someone attempted to escape. Wyoming."

"Oh, that crafty son of a bitch."

"I shot him on his way out. Didn't survive, I'm afraid. Very sad. But my point is... he was carrying these." Flowers dangled a set of keys in front of Sarge's face. "I would assume that he took these from a guard, let young Andy here into the engine room and then tried to make a break for it in the panic. There were some in the yard that were letting off explosions, as well. Flour bombs, according to some of the other guards. All part of the same shenanigans, I would assume."

Sarge took the keys away from Flowers. He examined them for a moment before raising his voice. "York!"

York appeared a few seconds later. "Yes?"

"Did you leave your keys around again?!"

"No. I don't... ah? Can I see those?" Sarge handed the keys over. York only had to look at them for a couple of moments. "These belong to Wash."

"You can tell?"

"Trust me, I know keys. And these are his."

"Okay, how much trouble am I in?" Andy asked. "It's a lot, right? I admit, I fucked up. But I was blackmailed and threatened. Threatened! I mean, you don't stand against guys like that. Seriously, Wyoming is—"

"Was," corrected Flowers.

"Was one of the most powerful inmates in this place! Add in that crazy flag guy and that red-haired psychopath..."

"O'Malley?" York looked up. "Wasn't he in the temporary infirmary?"

"He was. Seemed he also escaped. Tex has him on a timeout in the corner over there," Flowers said, gesturing at the corner.

"This is completely undignified!" they heard O'Malley complain loudly, from where he was sitting and facing the wall.

"Quiet," Tex said coldly.

York looked down at the keys for a couple more moments before saying, "Permission to check the rest of the prison for inmates wandering around?"

"Permission granted."

"Thanks." York left the cafeteria quickly.

"By the way, can I transfer to another prison?" Andy asked. "I don't think the guys are gonna be too happy with me, and I'd rather not die."

"Funny time to be asking for a favour, isn't it?" Flowers said amiably. "I'd rather not let you go, personally. You're such a good soccer player..."

* * *

Wash could hear it. That growling sound. Grrrrr. He could hear it. And he couldn't just look at the corner to assure himself that it was all in his head because he couldn't see the goddamn corner. He'd managed to convince himself that it was all in his head when there had still been that little trace of light. That sliver from under the door.

That little sliver of light had vanished... how long ago? A minute? An hour? Days ago? Wash didn't know. All he knew was that it was dark and any noises he could hear from anywhere else in the prison were distant. He thought he heard gunshots. Was that in his head, as well?

The noises that he could remember... the growling and the sound of knives cutting into flesh, which for some reason made Wash think of carving Thanksgiving turkey... Epsilon had once given him a sandwich with turkey on it, had it been Thanksgiving? The noises from his memories were so much louder in the dark, and they were a lot noisier than whatever sounds he was hearing from elsewhere in the prison, if those weren't in his head as well.

He'd shouted for help at first. Then he'd screamed it. He'd started pleading with the door and whoever was beyond the door to let him out. Would it do any good? Was the entire prison like this?

Was he even in the prison? All he could see was... well, that was just it. He couldn't see anything. For all he knew, he could really be back in that basement. He'd never really seen the basement, either. The lights had always been off...

"Hey! Help! Help! Help me! Please, let me out..." Wash's voice was croaky now. He'd spent too long screaming. Now he could barely manage any noise at all.

_"How does it feel? I've never let a friend or co-worker die. I'm curious as to what that feels like."_

_"I didn't—"_

_"Come, now. No lying."_

He knew that voice. Gamma. He could remember his voice just as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. Hear it as if it was happening right then. As if Gamma was standing there, talking in that weird monotone, while the Meta paced the room, letting out an occasional snarl.

_"You were only a few seconds late, weren't you? Meta saw you. You almost caught Delta's van. If you had, then that ambush would have gone as smoothly as Carolina had planned. And she wouldn't have had to pay the price for your failure. So, tell me. How does it feel?"_

Wash clasped his hands over his ears, but that did no good. He could still hear it. It was too vivid. Too loud. Too real.

His fingers, the ones that O'Malley had ripped the nails from, tingled. And his gums ached. Wash raised a hand to his mouth, felt the teeth there. False teeth. The torture had already happened. If it was still ongoing, he would just feel bloody gums. That pulled him back into reality a little. Just a little.

For a moment, he thought he heard something. Footsteps and his own name. But it was drowned out by another voice. A voice that was laughing. It had to be a memory, didn't it? But it didn't sound familiar.

It was just laughter. Mad laughter. Worse than O'Malley's sadistic chuckling. Just laughter that bore more resemblance to screaming than actual amusement.

_"I win! I win! You... I told you that you couldn't trick me, I told you! I told you!"_

Who the hell was that? Wash didn't have the faintest idea. But it terrified the hell of him.

_"You... you haven't beaten me, I win!"_

He heard the door swing open. Was it Omega and Gamma, bored and ready to slice him open some more?

_"I win, I win, I win..."_

That insane, screaming laughter... was that him?

"Wash?"

There was a sudden burst of light. Someone grabbed his shoulder. Wash flipped out.

"Get away! Get away! Get away!" He jerked his elbow back, hitting whoever was behind him before scrambling away. "No more! I'm sorry, I don't know anything! Please!"

"Jesus, Wash! That hurt! And what are you talking about?"

_Wait. That wasn't Omega or Gamma, or even Meta..._

The burst of light... it was from a flashlight. York was pointing it at him and rubbing his stomach where Wash had hit him.

"York?"

"Uh, yeah. Who did you think it was?" York walked towards him and handed him the flashlight. "I thought you might need that. Guess I showed up a bit late."

"Uh. Uhhhh... no. This is good." Wash clung to the flashlight like a drowning man clinging to a raft. "Um. Yeah."

York stared at him for a few moments before gesturing to the door. "Come on. The electricity in the prison is out. Andy blew up something, I think."

"Okay."

Wash followed York in silence for a few minutes. The memories were fading again. They weren't so sharp and loud. Some of them he was already having trouble recalling. And he was fine with that.

"York?"

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you turn up? We aren't exactly on the best terms right now."

"Look, I've seen you freak out before" York said flatly. "I wasn't going to leave you locked up with something you're that afraid of." York turned around and met Wash's gaze for a moment. "That's what you would have done."

Wash couldn't really think of an answer to that.


	119. Chapter 111: Kidnapping

**Chapter One Hundred And Eleven: Kidnapping**

It didn't take too long for the electricity to start working again. Whatever Andy had blown up was easily fixed. Sarge had called electricians in to fix it soon after the riot. By the end of the day, they had gotten it working again. And after a couple of hours of cleaning, the cafeteria and most of the prison was back to normal. There had been no real damage apart from some singed concrete.

The injuries were dealt with quickly. Sheila stitched up anyone who was bleeding heavily. Anyone who she couldn't treat was sent to the hospital, and most of the inmates sent to the hospital returned. A couple kicked the bucket while there, but considering how many got injured that was inevitable.

The prison quickly returned to normal. But there were a few key differences. A few things that were missing. That wouldn't be coming back.

* * *

The day after the riot, Donut sat in the yard. He wasn't really doing anything. There wasn't much to do. There never was. It felt particularly dull today.

He'd dragged Grif out with him. A couple of times, Donut had attempted conversation. It was useless. It was like talking to a rock.

Donut didn't try too hard to start a conversation. He didn't really want to talk either. He missed Simmons. The pain of losing him was like a constant ache in his chest. A dull pain that just wouldn't go away.

But that was just him. If that was what he was feeling, he couldn't imagine how badly it was hurting for Grif. Well, he could imagine a little bit. Just from the few moments that morning. Grif had woken up and, still half-asleep, had started directing conversation at Simmons' now empty cell. It had taken him a few moments to remember that Simmons wasn't there anymore. At which point he'd completely shut down again.

Grif just wasn't handling it well. It was part of the reason why he'd dragged Grif with him. Because he didn't want to leave Grif alone in his cell. He knew what happened to depressed guys who were left alone in their cells.

Donut propped his chin on his hand, watching the zealots standing on the other side of the yard. They were standing under the flag and throwing cups of orange juice around, wailing as loudly as possible. Some kind of strange funeral for their leader.

"Do you... do you want to do something? To help keep your mind off... you know?" Donut asked Grif quietly. "Play cards or something?"

Grif didn't reply. He didn't even bother to nod or shake his head.

"We could look through the library for books?"

No reply.

"Grif?"

"Just leave me alone, Donut." First full sentence of the day, excluding the few moments of conversation attempted with Simmons' empty cell.

"I'm just..."

"Are you deaf? Fuck. Off," Grif said quietly.

Donut stared at Grif for a moment, before saying, "No."

"I'll punch you."

"Don't care. Go ahead."

Grif raised a fist half-heartedly. But he didn't do much besides that. He just went back to staring blankly across the yard. And Donut went back to playing nervously with his fingers.

* * *

"I should get a bandanna or something. Tie it around my eyes."

The hospital may have stopped Tucker from bleeding, but they couldn't do anything for his eyesight. At the moment, bandages were covering his eyes and wrapped around his head. Tucker was poking at them curiously as he sat on his cot.

"You'd look even more ridiculous," Church said. He was standing near the entrance to the cell. Tucker could tell that much.

"No, man. I'd be like Neo in the last Matrix movie." Tucker made a kung fu gesture. "Like, I'd be able to see machines and shit without my eyes. And do kung fu. Hwah. It'd be awesome."

"You're an idiot." Tucker knew Church was rolling his eyes, even though he couldn't see it.

"An idiot with sweet kung fu skills," Tucker insisted.

"Yeah, sure."

"You know, if you keep hanging around here Tex is going to find you."

"I know that. You want me to run off and hide in a closet?"

"Fuck no. Who's gonna be my seeing eye dog?"

"Oh, so I've been upgraded to an animal. Flattering."

"I was just saying, that's all." Tucker shifted on his cot. He tilted his head from one side to the other. Over and over. He frowned slightly. "Hey, Church?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you... can you tell me what I'm looking at?"

There was a long, uncomfortable pause before Church answered.

"You're looking at Junior's pictures."

Tucker tried to squint, and kept tilting his head. Hoping for some kind of glimpse of what he was facing. Even just a little blur of colour. Nothing.

"Well. You mean I'm facing them, at least. I... I can't see shit." Despite Tucker's best efforts, his voice shook just a little during that last sentence. He couldn't help it. Sure, he'd obviously realised that Miller had slashed out his eyes when... well, when it happened. But the full ramifications of it were only hitting him now.

"Oh, really, you can't see? Seriously, when did you realise that?"

"I'm not going to be able to see Junior's drawings. ...Ever." Tucker scraped his foot across the concrete floor of the cell. "I'm... I'm not going to be able to see Junior. Being separated from him was shit enough. But... but now I can't even watch him grow up?"

Tucker wanted to cry. But he couldn't. There were bandages over his eyes. And he wasn't sure if his eyes could do that anymore.

He heard Church shift. His boots scraped along the floor. Tucker heard him get closer, but he was still surprised when Church grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet.

"What the fu—"

"This isn't anything gay, relax." Church guided him towards the pictures, then moved Tucker's hand to one of them. Tucker felt his hand brush paper, and felt just a little bit of crayon under his fingers. "Okay. This picture is of a dog. Brown. White patch over the eye. Also, I think he's flying."

"Ah. Yeah." Tucker knew that picture. He could see it clearly inside his head. It had been Junior's ambition to acquire a puppy when he was four.

Church moved Tucker's hand to a different picture. "This is a picture of... some kind of giant purple dildo."

"That's a dinosaur." Tucker could see that picture in his head, as well.

"Well, it looks like a dildo."

"Dude, it has spikes. What kind of dildos have you been using?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Alright, now..." Church guided Tucker's hand to a third picture. "This one... this one has you, Junior and... I think that's the dad... in front of a house. Real cosy-like."

"I remember that one..."

"You remember all of them, don't you?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Then you don't have to see them to look at them."

He was right. Tucker might not be able to see them... but he could remember them clear as anything. After five years of staring at that wall, he had the entire layout ingrained in his mind.

"But... what about Junior? I know what he looks like now, sure, but..."

"Oh, big whoop. He's a guy, isn't he? Men don't change that much. We're born with one finger up our nose and the other hand on our penis... and we get taller."

Tucker snorted. "Dude."

"What?" There was a short pause. "Okay, not being able to see your kid sucks. But it could be worse. I mean... you can't see him, sure, but you can still see him. I mean... crap, that's not right. What I meant is... he's still there. You can still talk to him and shit. It's more important to see him in that way then it is to physically see him, right? And some people... some people don't get that lucky even if they still have 20/20 vision."

Tucker considered this. "You know... you're actually making a bit of sense. For once."

"Oh, come on. You're acting like I normally talk like Caboose."

Tucker laughed light. Then it was quiet. It took Tucker a little while to notice that Church hadn't let go of his wrist.

"Uh, dude?"

"Hm?"

"You can let go now."

"Ah. Right."

* * *

Flowers stared down at his newspaper. He was on his break. Well, actually, that had ended five minutes ago. But the prison could get by without him for a few more minutes. Right now, he'd rather sit in the parking lot and read.

Besides, there was an article mentioning that there'd been a huge prison riot in the paper. Probably a slow news day. Still, Flowers pondered on whether he should cut out the article and stick it up on the wall at home. Should be proud of any publicity his men found. Then again, it wasn't the good kind of publicity.

He noticed a car drive in out of the corner of his eye. Flowers looked up from his paper. That was Wash's car. It parked in it's usual space. Wash climbed out and went around to the back seat. Flowers couldn't see what was in the back seat from where he was sitting.

He went back to reading his paper for a few moments. Until a shout drew his attention back to the car.

"Help! I'm being kidnapped!"

When Flowers looked up again, Wash was walking back towards the prison. And carrying a very agitated Doc over his shoulder.

"Oh. Hello, Doc. I haven't seen you in a while," Flowers said.

"Flowers? Help me! Wash kidnapped me! He came to my work and he... oh, I'm so going to get fired!" Doc whined. Wash ignored the whining.

"Captain, would you mind opening the door for me? Doc is squirming a lot and I'd rather not put him down," Wash said calmly.

"Of course, since you asked nicely." Flowers got to his feet and held the door open for Wash.

"Thanks."

"Please stop encouraging him!" Doc pleaded. "Help! Assault!"

"There was no assault, don't be a baby," Wash muttered, carrying Doc inside.

"It's nice to see you back again, by the way," Flowers called to Doc. He closed the door after them. The sounds of Doc's protests quickly faded. Flowers sat back down again and continued reading his paper.


	120. Chapter 112: Fired

**Chapter One Hundred And Twelve: Fired**

Sarge poured out another glass of whiskey and quickly knocked it back before returning to staring at the wall of war memorabilia that he'd always kept in the office. Memories of much better times.

The day he'd been kicked out of the army had been one of the most depressing days of his life. And despite the fact that being the warden was a lot less exciting and badass than being a sergeant in the army, he was having a strong, depressing feeling of deja vu right now.

Sarge stared bitterly at the letter that he was currently using as a coaster.

_To the Warden of Valhalla Penitentiary,_

_It only took a glance at the notes that the inspector made to see that the prison you are meant to be keeping order of is quickly escalating into anarchy. Riots with distressingly high amounts of death and serious injuries, explosions wreaking havoc, inmates that should be either locked up in solitary or at the very least getting some kind of therapy are wandering free through the prison and many a rumour about 'lethal macaroni' was passed on by the people that Inspector Vickory talked to._

_The amount of negligence being committed is at criminal levels. However, factoring in your age and the relative order of the prison until recent times, we have decided to blame your negligence on absentmindedness due to old age. I think that will be more convenient for all involved. However, I am forced to relieve you of your position as warden. You will be dismissed from your job as soon as we can find a sufficient person to replace you._

_Sincerely, the Chairman of..._

The bottom of the letter was soaked in spilt whiskey, blurring out the last few words of the Chairman's letter. Sarge poured another glass before rubbing his forehead. A stress headache was building.

The wife was going to kill him. Or at the very least put blue cheese in his sandwiches again.

The door was pushed open. Wash walked in, carrying Doc over his shoulders. Wash walked up to Sarge's desk and unceremoniously dumped Doc in the chair in front of it.

"Rehire him," he said bluntly.

"Didn't I fire you?" Sarge grumbled, gesturing at Doc. His voice was slightly slurred. Didn't matter anymore.

"Yes. Which was definitely the better thing to do," Doc said nervously. "You're just going to yell and tell me to get out anyway, aren't you? I'll save you the trouble and kick myself out. In a non-violent way." He tried to stand up, but Wash grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down.

"You need to rehire him. Don't care what you tell him to do. Just rehire him," Wash said bluntly.

"That Blue sympathizer?" Sarge picked up his whiskey glass and drained the contents. "Why should I?"

"Well, either that or give me permission to beat O'Malley's head in until he's more brain dead than Caboose. Either solution works, really. But for personal reasons, I'd rather you just rehire Doc."

Sarge went to pour himself some more whiskey, but he found that the bottle was empty. "Son of a gun, I'm out." He tossed the bottle into an empty corner, shattering it and making Doc jump.

"Um. You seem in a bad mood. I'll come back never," Doc said, trying to get up again. Once again, Wash pushed him back into the seat. "...He kidnapped me!" Doc added in an indignant tone.

"I don't care." Sarge scowled down at the Chairman's letter before pulling out a blank piece of paper and writing his reply.

_Dear Chairman,_

_Up yours._

_Sincerely, the Warden of Valhalla Penitentiary._

Once he had finished this brusque reply, he stood up. He was still quite steady despite the amount of whiskey he'd consumed. "I'm going to mail this and check on other stuff. You want a job here, you fill out the damn paperwork yourself. The next warden can deal with you and your... blue-liking ways."

He walked past Wash and Doc and left. Maybe Flowers had one of the bottles of whiskey he'd confiscated off Sarge in the past.

* * *

"Hm. Well, that wasn't what I was expecting, but it works." Wash quickly moved around the desk and sat in Sarge's seat before rifling through his desk for the necessary paperwork.

"What are you doing?"

"What's it look like? I'll find a job form, make up some job position for you and stick this wherever he keeps the personnel files. Then you'll have a job. You heard him, he gave permission. Ah." Wash pulled out a form. "You'd probably be useless as a guard..."

"You can't be serious..."

"Did you think I was just going to let you walk off again after bringing you here?"

"I thought it might have been a practical joke," Doc mumbled.

"Yes, because people routinely kidnap former co-workers and drive several miles to pretend to give them their job back," Wash said, looking for a pen. "Is there any job you'd prefer or that you wouldn't be dangerously incompetent at?"

"No, you can't... please don't do this," Doc pleaded. "I don't want to come back. I was happy out there!"

"At a coffee shop? Can't imagine why."

"Well... maybe not happy, exactly. But I wasn't killing anyone!"

"You're killing people by staying away."

"But... I don't want to be around O'Malley again! I know it's rude to say, but he's a psychopath!"

"You think I didn't know that? Have you seen a pen? Do you have one on you?"

"Uh, there's one in my pocket, hang on." Doc had pulled out a pen and was about to hand it to Wash before he came to his senses. "Wait a second, I'm against this! I'm not lending you this pen!"

"Oh no, how will I ever survive?" Wash said in a dull monotone.

"You can't make me do this. You don't know what it's like to be stuck with that man..." Doc protested.

Wash laughed bitterly. "Keep believing that. If it makes you feel better, he doesn't have the tools he needs to really do significant damage. All he ever has is screwdrivers, and I'm pretty sure he got those off Wyoming. So unless someone comes in to fill the smuggling void..."

"Wait, wait, wait! What happened to Wyoming? And if he's got no weapons, why do you need me here to stop him from being violent?"

"Oh, Wyoming got shot in the head yesterday when he tried to escape. He got to the parking lot." Wash looked up at Doc briefly and saw that Doc was frowning and fiddling with his fingers. "Something on your mind?"

"He was trying to escape?"

"Yeah. Almost did, too. If Flowers hadn't been there, he probably would have."

"Was O'Malley trying to get out at the same time?"

"I don't know. I wasn't around. But there's a very good chance he was." Wash went back to reading the empty form. "As for why I still need you here... O'Malley seems to be good at talking people into doing the damage for him."

Doc was still frowning. "He said he'd come to find me."

"I'm not surprised. He's making this fuss because you're not here. Makes sense that he'd try to find you if he made it outside. Though why he's so obsessed with you..." Wash shrugged and pushed the form towards Doc. "What's it going to be, Doc? Are you going to let people keep dying? Or are you going to actually do some good for once in your life?"

Doc gazed down at the form. He was still holding the pen. He started clicking the top of the pen, deep in thought.

"I didn't leave because of O'Malley. I left because of what he said. That I was the biggest murderer in this place," Doc said quietly. "I can't go back to that. I want to help people, not kill them."

"Inmates hardly qualify as people," Wash said. "But if you're seriously worried, just think up some job that'll let you help people." He drummed his fingers on the table, stopping when he realised he was poking at where Sarge had spilt his whiskey. Wash tilted his head and started reading the whiskey-soaked letter. Then he made a short, pleased hum. "What about a therapist?"

"A... a therapist?"

Wash placed his finger on part of the Chairman's letter. "The Chairman is actually recommending therapy for the inmates. Granted, you're probably even worse at that then you are at regular doctoring. But you probably won't kill anyone."

Doc kept clicking the pen. He still looked deep in thought, but he wasn't frowning as much. "Therapist... I do read a lot of books about peaceful minds and all that."

"Yes, everyone wins, now sign it."

Doc clicked the pen a couple more times before shrugging, a small smile reaching his face. "I guess it can't hurt to try. It'll probably do more good than giving people coffee. Caffeine isn't good for you." He pulled the form towards him. "But I can't promise I won't run off again."

"And I can't promise I won't kidnap you again if you do."

"Yeah... figures."

* * *

Donut was still keeping an eye on Grif from his cell. He was pretty sure Grif wouldn't do anything at the moment, though. If only because there was no rope. It looked like he was asleep at the moment, anyway.

"Captain Cookie Crisp!" Caboose came bouncing in. Despite the general melancholy in the cells, he was actually in a better mood than he had been in for the last few days. It was rather odd. Caboose was holding a book. "Can you read stories to me?"

"I'm... I'm really not in the mood for it right now, Caboose. Sorry."

Caboose rocked back and forth on his feet before plopping down next to him. "Is it Simmons? Are you still sad?"

"Well, yeah. That's a big part of it."

"Are other things bothering you as well?"

"Nothing big. Not really."

Caboose leaned forward, trying to keep eye contact despite the fact that Donut was currently staring at the ground. "Do you want to talk about it? I am a good listener!"

Donut frowned, before leaning sideways and using Caboose's shoulder as a pillow. "You know how I said that killing was never good, regardless of the reason?"

"Yes. I remember that."

"Well, there was a moment yesterday when I... I had the chance to kill O'Malley. There was nothing to stop me. Lopez was holding his arms back and I had the shiv at his throat and everything. All I had to do was..." Donut drew a thumb across his own throat. "And it would have been over for him.

"I had the chance. And I couldn't do it. I really wanted to. I wanted to cut that motherfucker's throat out. After everything he did... there was no reason not to do it. But I couldn't. I started thinking of my old roomie... and about how I wished I could have held myself back that time. And... and I thought maybe I would feel relieved about not killing O'Malley like I did Maine. But..." Donut looked up at Caboose. "I don't. I really wish I'd killed him. I think... I think the regret about not killing O'Malley is even worse than the regret over killing Maine. And that terrifies the hell out of me.

"I don't scrub my hands anymore when I remember killing my roommate. And all that guilt I had for killing him... I thought it was still strong until yesterday, but now... it feels like it's barely there. All I got left is the urge to shank O'Malley's face. What does that mean? What... what has this place done to me?"

Caboose didn't answer. He just patted Donut's head absently.

"Is... is there anything you can say to that?"

"I do not know what to say. I am not good with words. I am a listener," Caboose said. He wrapped an arm around Donut and hugged him tighter. "But if you stick pointy things into O'Malley's face, I will still like you."

"...Thanks. I think."


	121. Chapter 113: Personal Items

**Chapter One Hundred And Thirteen: Personal Items**

As it turns out, Church couldn't avoid Tex forever. She found him just after lunch, when he was trying to find a way to hide from view in the yard.

"Church. Over here. Now," Tex said shortly.

Tucker turned his head towards them. "I hear Tex."

"No shit, asshole."

"She sounds mad. Shield your crotch."

"What."

"Just saying, is all. I'll be here. Not getting kicked in the crotch, because I'm smart like that."

Church lightly smacked the back of Tucker's head before reluctantly following Tex to a corner of the yard that was empty, save for some laundry that Donut had taped to the wall. A lot of the clothes Donut was in the middle of drying still had faded bloodstains on them.

"Alright, asshole. What was the one thing we agreed on?" Tex growled.

"No killing."

"Then what's this I hear about you cutting out Miller's throat?"

"Yes. That. It was... it was an illusion. A guy that looked like me. Or someone in a wig. It was dark, you can't prove anything," Church said quickly. "Did you even see it happen?"

"No. South did. She told me."

"Well... South's kinda a liar."

"Hm. Haven't heard that before except from Wash."

"Yeah, well... never had a reason to bring it up."

"Mmhm. Are you going to keep lying to me? If you do keep this up, you better take the advice about shielding your junk."

Church rubbed his forehead. "Fuck, Tex. What's gonna happen if I admit it? You gonna snitch about me and Eddie? They'll get you on perjury for that."

"I know. So I'm giving you thirty seconds to explain." Tex rested against the wall, arms crossed. "Talk. Why'd you do it? And if you keep denying it, then I'm telling regardless of the charges."

Church scowled. "Bitch. What was I supposed to do? Have you seen what he did to Tucker?" Church gestured at Tucker, who was patting the ground. He'd dropped the dice he'd been playing with. "He isn't going to see shit ever. And that's what happened when I managed to stop Miller. If I'd let him go ahead, he would have killed him. Slashed me, too." Church gestured at his side. The jacket was hiding the bandages. "Miller was a bitch and he wasn't gonna stop. It was him or Tucker. And despite how much of an asshole Tucker is, that's an easy choice."

Tex raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"I can make up other reasons, if that helps." Church studied Tex's expression. She still looked unconvinced. "Look. I wouldn't have done it if I had a choice."

"Really?" Tex's voice was sarcastic.

"I swear on my..." Church was about to say father's grave, but considering that he put him there that probably didn't mean much. "On my mother's grave. I had no choice."

Tex started tapping her foot on the wall she was leaning on, her frown getting deeper. "Not convinced."

Church's stomach clenched up. She had to be convinced. If she blabbed... This was gonna require some serious begging. Dammit. Church took a deep breath.

"Allison." He hadn't used the name Allison in a long time. Fifteen years, at this point. He associated it too closely with happier times. It was easier to say Tex. "I don't care what happens to me. Say I murdered Miller. Punish me for that if you really have to. Even if Miller was a douchebag who had it coming, I'll be fine with that. Hell, do whatever you want to me. Even if you leave me in solitary, with O'Malley, tied up and with no pants on... well, that'll be complete shit, but I'll take it. Just... just don't bring Eddie into this. Please."

Church didn't expect Tex to laugh.

"Oh, man. You are so desperate," she chuckled.

"No, I'm not! Hey, you're not supposed to laugh at that! What are you, a sadist? Wait, I know the answer to that..."

"Yeah. I was kinda fucking around with you. Thing is..." Tex tapped her foot against the wall a couple more times. "I don't know where your brother is."

There was a long moment of silence.

"You bitch!"

"I know. Kinda wanted to see how much you'd beg."

"Oh, you... gah!" Church threw his arms in the air angrily. "So it was all made up? You've been lying to me for five fucking years?"

"Actually, no. I should rephrase. I knew where your brother was five years ago." Tex raised a fist and tapped it against the prison walls. "He was in prison. Not in this one, obviously."

"Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait." Church waved his arms around for a moment. "...Wait. You're not serious."

"I am. Actually, if you'd been reading the newspaper at the time, you might have seen it mentioned... you don't read the papers, do you?"

"Doesn't do me any good knowing what's going on outside the prison, does it?" Church snapped. "Why didn't you tell me when it happened? Wait, scratch that... why the fuck is he in jail?!"

"Was in jail, Church. Was."

"But why?! I'm in this dump because I was trying to stop that!"

"I'm explaining, all right? Now shut up. About five years ago Eddie... going by a different name, but it was definitely your little brother... was caught stealing a bulldozer."

"What."

"Yeah, you heard that right."

Church couldn't make any comprehensible words for a few seconds. When he managed to speak again, all that came out was "Why?!"

"He wouldn't say. He didn't get too far, so he never got to knock anything over. But I can guess." Tex looked sideways at Church. "He was driving in the direction of this prison when he was pulled over. So... I'll give you three guesses as to what he was probably planning."

"...No."

"What makes it so impossible?"

"He can't. He... he shouldn't know I'm here! He's not... he... dammit, Delta or someone must have blabbed... God, that... how could..." Church rubbed his forehead again. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"

"So, I knew where he was when you asked. But now? Well, he was released a while back. He had no criminal record besides that, so they only kept him for a few years. As soon as he was released he disappeared again."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. Considered telling you. Decided not to."

"God. I hate you so much right now.

"I always hate you."

"Well, I hate you even more."

* * *

"Uh, Grif?"

Someone poked Grif in the back. When Grif turned over and pushed himself into a sitting position, he saw that it was York.

"Yeah? The fuck you want? What're you doing in my cell? I don't have any pruno, alright? You'd be able to smell it." Grif was not in the mood for this. He wasn't in the mood for anything. He just wanted to curl up and go to sleep and ignore the stupid numb ache that had been bugging him.

York stepped back a bit so that he was standing in the entrance to Grif's cell. "It's not like that. You're not in trouble."

"Then fuck off."

"You're lucky I'm one of the nicer guards. Anyway, it concerns Simmons' cell."

At just the mention of Simmons' name, Grif turned back to the wall and curled back up under the flimsy sheets. "I don't want to hear it. Not my concern."

"Oh. Well, it's just that we have to clean out that cell. Remove his belongings and all that. There's not really anyone to send his things to, since his family has made it clear that they want nothing to do with him. I wanted to ask if you wanted to pack up his things yourself. Keep anything important. I mean... you were closest to him, right?"

Grif didn't answer. He didn't want to face it.

"If you don't, we'll just have to toss his stuff."

That decided it. Going through Simmons' things would be tough (for the first time ever) but letting the guards throw it out, with the exception of anything they called dibs on, like they'd done when Jones-Joannes-whatever died was much more painful.

"Okay, just... fuck off. I'll do it," Grif grumbled, sitting back up.

"Alright. But have it done by tomorrow, okay?" York made a weird spasm that might have been intended as a sympathetic gesture, but he sort of quit halfway so it just looked like he was having a miniature seizure. Good. Grif was already sick of the pity stares he was getting from Donut, he didn't want them from the goddamn guards as well.

Grif dragged himself over to Simmons' cell. As he passed by Donut's cell he saw that it was empty. Great. Didn't need that pansy...

As it turned out, for all that Simmons bitched about Grif not keeping his cell tidy, he had a lot of crap crammed everywhere. Mostly books and pages torn out of books from the library. Usually science fiction stories. Nerd.

The footlocker was left for last. When Grif opened it, the first thing he found was a Post-It that said '_Fuck off, Grif. Quit going through my stuff._' God, the one time that Grif wanted to listen to that stupid Post-It... Grif peeled it off and crumpled it. Then he unfolded it again. Then he crumpled it up again and made like he was going to toss it. But at the last moment he shoved it in his pocket instead.

A lot of stuff in the footlocker could have been thrown out. The loose pages from science fiction novels that Grif had no interest in ever reading because they gave him a headache, for one. But Grif just put them to the side in a stack, ready to cart back to his cell.

Halfway through, he found a packet of Oreos. Another Post-It was stuck to the front. "_Okay, obviously you ignored the first message. Quit going through my things! And don't eat these, they're __for later!_"

Grif peeled off the Post-It and shoved it in his pocket with the first. After a moment's hesitation, he tossed the Oreos over his shoulder, away from the pile of things he planned to keep.

When he was almost done sorting, he heard someone pick up the Oreos packet. Hoping it wasn't Donut, with his fucking stupid stare, he turned around. It wasn't Donut. It was Caboose. Who had a stupid stare of his own, but not the same as Donut. Not... pitying, exactly. Actually, Caboose's stare was impossible to read. Which was annoying, but not as bad as Donut's gaze.

"The fuck do you want, Caboose?"

Caboose didn't answer. He didn't even give a reply when Grif pulled off his shoe and tossed it at him. He just ducked and ended up crouching down, watching Grif through the bars with those huge, blue eyes. Grif figured it was more useful to just ignore him, Caboose probably didn't understand the words 'go away.' Instead, he turned back to the remainder of Simmons' things.

Right at the bottom, he found photos. This wasn't surprising. Grif had a bunch of photos from home as well. Simmons had different ones, but they were fundamentally of the same things. Him, Simmons and Sister.

They were the only people in the photos, with the exception of one photo hidden right at the back of the pile, which was of three people, a man, woman and a young girl, all with cheerful but slightly creepy smiles. Accompanied by a less happy child version of Simmons. Must be his family. Grif wondered why Simmons bothered to keep the picture.

He started looking through the other pictures. As he did, he heard Caboose get up and walk off. Much better.

There was one of Grif wandering around with a pair of boxers on his head, holding a sparkler. It had been a particularly weird New Years.

There was a photo of the three of them at a theme park. Sister had given the camera to a stranger to take a picture of them. The stranger had immediately run for it, though the security had caught him quickly. The picture had been taken on accident, and mostly involved the three of them flailing and running after the photographer.

A photo that Grif found in the middle of the pile was of Sister. Wearing a weird, semi-revealing club outfit decorated in sequins. Grif didn't want to know why Simmons had this, and he would have yelled at him something awful for it were he still there.

One of the last photos was of both Grif and Simmons asleep on the couch together, though they were sleeping head to foot. Grif had his foot in Simmons face. Sister must have taken it. Grif didn't appreciate his little sister taking vaguely gay pictures of them. It was weird.

The last photo was of the three of them together again. Sister was holding the camera in front of them. Grif and Simmons had been arguing when the picture was taken. Grif could remember, even now, what they'd been arguing about. It had concerned whether She-Hulk or Catwoman would win in a fight. Grif had argued Catwoman because who would be better at catfights than her?

Grif stared at this picture for several minutes. Then he looked at the cell. He'd finished cleaning it out. It was empty.

It wasn't Simmons' cell anymore. It was just an empty room. And seeing the empty cell had a horrible tone of finality to it. The closest thing Grif had ever felt was the first night he'd been locked up. When the cell door had been slammed behind him. That clang. That final clang.

But that hadn't been so bad. Because Simmons had been there.

Grif's eyes burned. His throat went dry and a huge lump formed inside it. Grif quickly gathered up Simmons' old things and started to carry them back to his cell.

He found something on the bed. A stuffed toy pigeon. Accompanied by a drawing of an orange blob trying to absorb a grey blob. Or something. Was this Caboose's weird form of pity? Or a strange way of cheering him up? Or something entirely different?

Grif decided he didn't care. His eyes were burning more and his face felt damp. Tears dripped onto the photo he was still holding. He tried to wipe them off, but as soon as he did more just dripped onto it.

He couldn't stop. And right now, he didn't even want to try.


	122. Chapter 114: Therapy For Dummies

**Chapter One Hundred And Fourteen: Therapy For Dummies**

"Okay. I think the room is ready."

Two days after Wash had gotten him rehired, Doc was trying to stick up his old 'hang in there, kitty' poster in what was now his official office. Before, it had just been an unused room. And it definitely showed, as the ceiling was mouldy, the walls unpainted and the floor was kind of gritty. Doc had attempted to cover it up using blankets, cushions and motivational posters.

"What do you think? Does this look like a therapist's office? Does it look welcoming?" Doc asked Wash, who was standing in the doorway.

"If you added a few dozen cats it would be a clone of my grandmother's living room," Wash answered dryly.

"Is that a yes?"

"Uh. Sure. Whatever."

Doc finished taping up his old poster and moved to the sofa, sitting down on it carefully. Therapists always had to have sofas for patients to lie on. It was mandatory, or at least Doc assumed so judging by how often he'd seen it on television. The sofa wasn't very comfortable, though. He could feel the springs. They were pointy.

"Um. I guess this is enough to start off with." Doc bounced up and down on the sofa a couple of times before climbing off it. "And now... I am really not sure what I'm supposed to do. What does this job entail?"

"How should I know?"

"You were the one who filled out my job application, why wouldn't you know?"

"I was just making up stuff, I don't know what therapy entails. Well, I do, but I've only been on the... er, patient's side of things. You brought books on it, didn't you?" Wash grumbled.

"Yeah." Doc picked up the book he'd found the day before. 'Therapy For Dummies.' "But I haven't read through the whole thing yet!"

"Eh. It probably doesn't matter. Sarge is so depressed about being fired that you could probably set fire to the room and he wouldn't even notice." Wash crossed his arms and rested on the doorframe. "But, if you want to act like you're actually doing something... I don't know. Just order inmates up here and ask them questions?"

"Order them? That sounds a bit harsh."

"They're unrepentant criminals, they'll live if you're 'a bit harsh,'" Wash snapped. "Ask them politely if that makes you feel better."

"Okay, then." Doc paced the room a couple of times. "So... O'Malley. Is he wandering around? Or is he in solitary?"

"He's been in solitary since the riot. Can't say how long he'll be in there. He might have attacked some people during the riot, there was a lot of blood where he was found. I suppose you have time to prepare for when he shows up."

Doc sat down in the other chair he'd brought into the room. He'd borrowed it from the infirmary when he went to retrieve his kitty poster. Sheila hadn't minded much. Nice woman. Although she'd scolded him quite a bit once she found out he was the old doctor. Doc hadn't known that some of the medicine he had used had been banned decades ago. Awkward way to find out.

"Hm..." Doc crossed his arms, frowning at the ceiling. "He's probably going to kill me when he shows up. But the longer I put it off, the longer he'll have to come up with some kind of disturbing revenge for running off." He rocked back and forth on his chair a little. "I guess... I guess I should just get it over with and hope he gets bored soon. Can you bring him up here?"

"Right now?"

"Might as well. He can't take me by surprise if I know he's coming."

"Sure, I guess. Oh!" Wash rifled through his pockets and handed Doc a can of pepper spray. "You could always spray him with this if he gets out of hand."

"But... that's violent!"

"Think of it this way. Without the pepper spray, O'Malley could cause serious physical harm to you. But all pepper spray will do to him is put him in enough discomfit to distract him from hurting you. So really, you're preventing violence."

"Huh. I never thought about it like that." Doc put the pepper spray in his pocket, albeit with a trace of reluctance.

"Good. But don't let him get hold of it. Technically, that's my pepper spray, so I'll be the one in trouble if he's found with it. And I'm already in trouble because he stole my keys during the riot." Wash walked out. Doc paused for a moment before jumping to his feet and sticking his head out the door.

"Give me half an hour before you bring him here! I need to read some more of 'Therapy For Dummies!'"

* * *

Donut was hanging up a new load of washing. Since the riot, there were so many stained clothes that it would take him weeks to clean them all. It was rather profitable. Though it didn't make up for everything else that had happened during the riot, obviously.

He'd dragged Grif outside with him again and was keeping an eye on him. The last time he'd stopped watching in order to go to the showers, he'd come back to find Grif crying his eyes out over Simmons' empty cell. Grif needed to be in the sun some more, anyway. Staying cooped up in his cell couldn't be doing him any good.

"I don't want to be out here," Grif grumbled. "I want to go back to sleep."

"You're being silly. You need fresh air." Donut hung up another jacket, which had previously been covered in food stains. Food stains weren't so bad when compared to the blood stains that just wouldn't come out. "Besides, I need to wash your sheets. They smell. So do you, actually. You need a shower."

"Do not."

"You smell like feet," Caboose put in. He was sitting on the ground next to Donut. He wasn't wearing any shoes and kept wiggling his toes. Donut wasn't sure if this was because he wanted to walk around in bare feet or because he'd lost his shoes again. "I had a cousin who smelt like feet. He also smoked something that smelt funny and kept saying his name was not what his name was."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Grif muttered.

"You both smell like feet. That means it has something to do with things," Caboose insisted.

"I know that! Just... just shut up, alright? And stop leaving your pigeon in my cell! I don't... fucking..." Grif trailed off for a moment before climbing to his feet. "I'm going for a walk! If that's alright with you, Mother!" Grif shouted at Donut before storming off.

"Gruf is angry," Caboose whispered.

"I know, sweetie." Donut started hanging up a pair of pants. "By the way, stuffed pigeons don't comfort everyone."

"It might have comforted him."

"Mm. Don't think so. Maybe you should just keep it with you."

"It is not comforting for me at the moment." Caboose pulled his knees up to his chest. "It makes me think of Mama, and then I do not want to eat."

"Oh."

"Princess Peach!" Donut turned to see Sarge walking towards him, holding a bag of laundry. As he got closer, Donut could smell whiskey. "Wash these for me, will ya?"

"Sarge? Is your wife punishing you by not washing your underwear again?"

"She's as crabby as a sea of angry oxen because I went out drinking with Captain Girlylocks again. It's just gonna get worse once I tell her I'm fired."

"Huh? You got fired? Why're you still here?"

"He does not look burnt," Caboose said, tilting his head and squinting.

"I'm not fired yet! They just need a replacement." Sarge dropped the bag of laundry before grabbing Donut by the shoulder and gesturing out over the yard. "What do you see, Cupcake?"

"Uh. The yard, orange jumpsuits and a lot of scorch marks where the zealots set off explosives?" Donut asked.

"That's not important! There are walls! And you know what walls do? Keep the maggots inside! Which is what prisons are supposed to do! And it has done that while I've been here! So why should I be fired, huh?"

Donut could think of answers to that. But Sarge was still ranting and didn't give him a chance to reply.

Sarge ranted for a full half an hour. During that time, Donut occasionally went 'mmhm' while he finished hanging up laundry. Caboose just sat there, tracing patterns in the dirt. Occasionally he would tug on Donut's pant leg and ask what some of the phrases that Sarge had used meant, such as what was an ice-cream social and why couldn't they have one?

"...and on top of it all, they had the nerve to blame it on old age! Old age my still youthful ass! Sixty is barely elderly!" Sarge shouted. "Have you ever been falsely accused of being elderly, Donut?"

"Mmhm."

"That was a question, soldier!"

"What? Oh. No. I get the opposite. Like when I first turned up, Sim... er, a friend tried to stop me from drinking pruno because I was still under the drinking age at the time. Wait, I shouldn't have said that."

"Oh, codswallop. You're never too young to start chugging liquor like a manly man. Even if it tastes like orange juice that's been kept under a radiator."

"I do not like alcohol. It smells funny," Caboose muttered.

"Ah, grow some testicles, you sissy," Sarge grumbled. He scratched his chin for a few moments. It was very stubbly, he clearly hadn't shaved in a few days. "Hm. I feel much better now that I've gotten that massive chunk of injustice off my chest. You're not that bad, Princess! You're like the daughter I never had! Or the son I might have in the future, if he keeps going for the fluffy, non-manly things. What kind of son would prefer a hamster over a cobra?"

"When I was young, I wanted a peacock," Donut said.

"And suddenly a hamster seems very manly!" Sarge thumped Donut on the shoulder in what was probably meant to be an expression of comradeship before wandering off.

Now finished with the laundry, Donut sat down next to Caboose. He quickly looked around for Grif to make sure he hadn't left the yard. He hadn't. Grif was talking to an inmate that Donut wasn't familiar with. Donut should have been relieved to see Grif willingly talking, but it didn't look like friendly chit-chat. Grif was still scowling.

Caboose tugged on Donut's sleeve. "Commander Chocolate Chip?"

"Hm?"

"Red Sergeant said I need to grow some testicles. I do not know where to buy the seeds."

Donut blinked a couple of times, not quite processing Caboose's words. "Um... Testicles aren't plants, Caboose."

"But he said I had to grow them."

"I'll... I'll explain when you're older."

"But I think I am older than you..."

* * *

"No."

"Why the fuck not, Murphy?" Grif grumbled. "I know you make tons of pruno, I can smell it whenever I'm in your cell block. I'll pay you however much you want for it, I just want enough alcohol for several people."

"Party?" Murphy questioned without looking up from his newspaper, disinterested in the conversation.

"No. I just need it, is all."

"So do I."

"Not as much as I do! Come on, name your price. I'll give you whatever you want, I just want the damn alcohol. Don't have enough fruit to make my own. Name your price, come on!"

Murphy considered this for a moment, finally looking up from his paper. "Can I have pictures of your sister?"

"What?"

"She's pretty. And it's been a while."

"Ew, no. Anything but that."

"Then no deal."

"Come on!"

This was the fifth guy in the last half an hour that Grif had tried to buy alcohol off. They were all so freaking protective of their liquor. After more fruitless arguing with Murphy, Grif wandered off in search of someone else who was a known pruno manufacturer.

There had to be someone in this dump who'd sell him enough alcohol to completely forget about Simmons.


	123. Chapter 115: Spray

**Chapter One Hundred And Fifteen: Spray**

"I know it's not really your style, but you could be more gentle. I'm hardly going to run off," O'Malley sighed, as Wash dragged him along by his collar. "You're going to stretch my jacket. And I have to live in this jacket for the rest of my life, if all goes to the plan of the judge who sentenced me here."

"You're not allowed to talk. Shut it," Wash snapped.

"Not allowed to talk? If I have the right to remain silent, then that implies I have the right to remain chatty."

"You don't. Shut it."

"You haven't even told me where we're going yet."

"Does it matter? Shut up." Wash stopped in front of an unmarked door. O'Malley hadn't even been aware there was a room here. "I'm warning you. I'll be right outside, so no funny stuff."

"Funny stuff? Oh, Wash. Are you implying that I'm untrustworthy?" O'Malley said, wearing an expression of mock hurt. "I though we were friends."

Wash glared at him for a moment before knocking on the door three times.

"That you, Wash?"

O'Malley's attention left Wash immediately and focused on the voice. That was Doc. or at least O'Malley thought it was. Last time he thought he'd heard Doc's voice he'd actually been hallucinating. Which actually made much more sense, seeing as there was no reason that Doc would be in this particular room. This was an unused room. Doc would be in the infirmary if he came back.

"You've been messing with my meds, Wash?" O'Malley asked uneasily. He did not want to have Doc yanked away from him like what had happened the last time he'd hallucinated.

Wash gave him a weird look before saying, "Yeah. Got him. You still want to see him, or do you want me to drag him back? Or I can hit him a few times. That won't do anything but it'll be cathartic."

"Uh... uh... bring him in. Just, um... just a moment! And no hitting!" There was some hurried footsteps from inside before he said, "Okay, I'm... I'm ready, I guess."

Wash opened the door and roughly shoved O'Malley inside before slamming it again.

"Very rude! You should get some etiquette lessons instead of therapy next time!" O'Malley said, directing his words at the door before turning to the possible hallucination of Doc.

He was sitting in a chair with wheels on the bottom that had clearly been pilfered from the infirmary, holding a notebook and a pencil. A book was sitting in his lap. He was pale, and seemed to be shivering somewhat. It was a bit too detailed for a hallucination... But O'Malley wasn't quite convinced.

"Uhhhhh... would you like to take a seat? Or lie down?"

Not a word mentioning that he'd been gone for over a month. It was just like Doc to avoid a nasty subject like that. A sour feeling crawled into O'Malley's stomach. Felt like that time he ate a caterpillar when he was a kid. The anger he'd felt when Doc had first left had changed into deep bitterness. And seeing Doc, even if it was a hallucination, was making the feeling worse.

O'Malley took a few steps forward without saying anything. Doc shifted nervously when he did. O'Malley got close enough to smell the rather odd scent that Doc always had. Not quite perfume or any kind of deodorant. It was somewhere between a natural, flowery smell and something spicy. Perhaps he burnt incense at home, it would suit his ridiculous hippy nature. Unless he thought burning things was offensive to anyone who'd been in a fire.

"Did you hear me?" Doc asked nervously. "This... this is a therapy session, and I think it's mandatory for the patient to lie down on the couch. Or sit, at least."

"Are you real?" O'Malley asked bluntly.

"Excuse me?"

"Are you real? You don't smell like a hallucination. Are you really Doc? Or have I mixed up my pills again?" Doc moved forward a bit, perhaps intending to climb out of the chair, but O'Malley grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back down, making Doc's chair shift a bit backwards. "Well?"

"Who else would I be?"

The certainty that this was a hallucination was quickly fading. Doc certainly felt real. Nice and soft and funny-smelling. Just needed to be squealing like a pig about how inappropriate or offensive something was. It was enough. Doc was back. He was...

The bitterness in O'Malley's stomach was starting to bubble. It was boiling and turning back into rage. How could he just walk back in and act like nothing was different?

"Why did you take so long to come back?" O'Malley's voice was still calm. But his fingers tightened and dug into Doc's shoulders, deep enough to leave bruises. Especially on soft, cowardly Doc.

"Why did—are you serious?" Doc's voice cracked when he said that. "Are you actually wondering why I ran off?!" He wriggled out of O'Malley's grip and then pushed the ground with his feet, propelling his chair backwards.

O'Malley had never hated wheelie chairs so much.

"That's not an answer." O'Malley walked towards Doc, but he kept moving back on the wheelie chair.

"I... I was kidnapped!" Doc protested.

"That's your excuse? You were kidnapped?" O'Malley's voice was quickly rising. "There'd be no value in kidnapping you! No-one cares enough about you to bother paying the ransom!"

"That's just hurtful!"

"You expect me to believe that's why you dared to stay away so long?!"

"No, that's why I came back! And why are you so shocked that I ran off? You were the one who pointed out all the reasons why I should've gone to work in a coffee shop right before I did that! You can't be that confused about it! And this is a therapy session!" Doc whined, speeding up. They were moving in circles at this point. "Please sit down! I'm going to wear out the wheels on this chair!"

"You're not giving me a good reason. And if you don't come up with one that completely stuns me into sympathetic understanding, then... well, let's just say worn-out wheels are going to be the very least of your problems!"

As he neared Doc, O'Malley lunged before Doc could move his chair back again. He grabbed the seat, pushed and slammed the chair into the wall. Before Doc could run off, O'Malley placed his hands on the wall either side of him to bar his escape.

"Just like old times, isn't it? Nice, warm memories." Doc opened his mouth but O'Malley clasped a hand over it. "None of that."

"Is he doing stuff in there?" Wash yelled from outside. "I heard clunking and yelling!"

"Tell him that everything is fine. Don't make things worse for yourself," O'Malley said quietly.

Doc narrowed his eyes, but when O'Malley removed his hand Doc called out, "Things are fine! He's not shoving me into walls!"

"That sounds oddly specific..."

"It's fine!" Doc lowered his voice before saying, "Okay, I said things were fine. Now let me go and sit down."

"After all the trouble I went through to get you back? Now, why is Wash following you around? You haven't replaced me, have you? You wouldn't want me to get jealous, would you?"

"No! That's just... hang on." Doc was still clinging to his notebook and pencil. He started writing something down, his eyes still on O'Malley. "We can conduct therapy sessions standing up, if you really want. I'm sure the couch is just... um, just a guideline."

"No. I despise therapists. They were always so roundabout in fixing their patients, when all that was really needed was a lobotomy. Or the cutting off of something, at any rate..." Doc instinctively flinched at that. O'Malley grinned widely before placing his hands on Doc's shoulders again. One hand moved along his shoulder to start brushing over Doc's neck. "Speaking of cutting things off..."

"No, let's not speak about cutting things off!" Doc said hurriedly. "I... I mean, we could talk about anything, this is a welcome environment and I'll listen to you problems and fix you so that you won't have to... um... do what you do..."

"I told you time after time after time, but clearly you didn't get the message..." O'Malley wasn't speaking louder than a harsh whisper, but his hands had tightened again. He wasn't quite strangling Doc, but his fingers were pressing down enough to be uncomfortable. At the same time, he leaned forward so that his lips were close to Doc's ear. "You. Don't. Leave. You belong to me."

"Um, actuall—aahh!" Doc let out an involuntary squeak as O'Malley quickly bit at his ear, a bit harder than he would have normally done. "Please don't do that!" O'Malley wondered whether removing the ears would be sufficient punishment. And that was something he could probably do with his teeth. It would be easy just to bite down...

"While I never damaged you for fear of breaking you too soon... maybe a scratch on the paint-job would help you remember not to run, my little plaything."

Doc started sweating. But at the same time, he looked down at his notepad and started scribbling. "You use toy metaphors a lot when talking to me..."

O'Malley scowled and jerked back, staring at Doc. "Are you even listening?!"

"Out of curiosity, were you an only child?"

"Stop analyzing me!" A fresh wave of anger swept through his stomach as O'Malley grabbed Doc's throat with both hands and squeezed. Doc dropped the notepad and pencil in his lap and tried to pull O'Malley's wrists away, but with no success. "You run away, you make me go through all the trouble of hurting and killing people to get you back, when you come back you immediately find a replacement psychotic person, and then you dare... you actually dare to try and force me into a therapy session?! After all that?!"

Doc might have tried to say something. But it came out as a choked wheeze.

"How dare you! How dare you analyze me! How dare you run off! HOW DARE YOU LEAVE ME HERE WITH NOTHING TO ALLEVIATE MY BOREDOM!" O'Malley roared. Then he moved one hand away from Doc's throat, still keeping the other one clasped tight, to pick up the pencil Doc had dropped. He smiled slightly. "Well. I may not have any sophisticated weapons on me at the moment... but I suppose a pencil will do for now. The eyes are soft, after all."

He let go of Doc's throat entirely, leaving Doc to gasp for breath, while moving his hands up to Doc's face. His thumb brushed the corner of Doc's eye, causing Doc to shut his eyes tight automatically.

"You have such nice eyes. It's rather a shame." O'Malley raised the pencil, the point just an inch from Doc's left eye. "Which would you prefer to lose?"

Doc's eyes opened wide before he shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled something out. O'Malley didn't have time to realise it was a can of pepper spray before Doc sprayed it into his eyes.

It burned. O'Malley stumbled back, fingers clawing at his face and the burning liquid. He heard a door slam open and Doc's footsteps quickly moving away from him. His eyes burned with pain and his stomach boiled with anger. Where the hell had he gotten pepper spray from?!

"Doc! How dare—where did you go?!" O'Malley screamed. His eyes were streaming and he couldn't see anything except red. He heard the door slam open. "Doc! Where'd you go?! When I find you—"

Something hit him hard in the back of the head.

* * *

"That wasn't necessary! You said the pepper spray was to avoid violence!" Doc protested, looking down at O'Malley. "I think knocking him out is a bit much..." Wash shrugged and put away his nightstick.

"Well. I was being safe. You could have shouted for help, you know."

"Yeah, but... I mean, he's going to come back either way. I thought, maybe if I figured him out..." Doc picked up his notepad from where he'd dropped it. "I was just... Never mind. Uh. If he doesn't need to go to the infirmary, you can take him back to solitary. Also, do you know where I can find a list of all the inmates? So that way I can go through them and decide which ones need regular therapy?"

"Eh, I guess." Wash grabbed O'Malley by his feet and started dragging him out of the room. "But don't get used to this 'me doing things for you' thing."

"No problem. I don't want to be a bother."

Once Wash was gone, Doc sat down in his chair and started scribbling down what he knew about O'Malley.

It was as good a starting point for anything as therapy. Or some kind of case study... O'Malley did behave rather oddly. Maybe if he figured out why O'Malley was so insane, maybe he could get him to stop being insane...

Best hope he had right now.


	124. Flashback: Final Chapter

**A/N: Though this is labeled the final flashback, that's really kind of a lie. It's the last for the main six guys. There might be others later.**

**Prepare for length. This chapter alone is like 35000 words.**

**Flashback – Final Part**

To say that O'Malley had been annoyed at Gary's death and somewhat reluctant to fix Eddie was one of the larger understatements that had happened in human history. O'Malley had been very unwilling. And absolutely furious.

When Church had shoved open the door, the first thing he'd heard was O'Malley shouting at Delta. Roaring about how he couldn't just go around shooting O'Malley's henchman and then expect him to get to work with fixing his comrades, especially 'anyone who comes from the same line as whatever spawned our so-called leader.'

O'Malley had been yelling this and Delta had been trying to reason with him, insisting that Gary had brought it on himself by betraying them, and that between the data on Simmons' computer and standing over Eddie with a knife, logic said that his guilt was obvious.

Church hadn't cared about either. Because while that meaningless argument was going on, his little brother was bleeding to death. He'd been sitting next to the couch Eddie was sprawled on, clinging to his hand like letting go would cause Eddie to drown. The hand was cold and clammy. But there was a faint pulse. It was there, but Church was terrified that each beat would be the last.

Church had been screaming as well, pleading for them to stop arguing so that they could save Eddie. He didn't care who won the argument. Either O'Malley would fix Eddie, or Church would have to take him to a hospital and risk discovery, both of whatever illegal activities had led to a sixteen-year-old being stabbed and of where his parents were and why they weren't looking after their sons. Whatever the risk, Church would have taken it. Because what was the point of becoming a criminal and keeping it secret if the reason he did so was dead?

Church had been about to pick up Eddie and hightail it out of there. But before he could, Meta decided to intervene in the argument, and did so quite effectively.

Meta grabbed Delta's arm. Ignoring the protests, he pulled him away from O'Malley. Then he walked back and grabbed O'Malley's collar, much more roughly than he had grabbed Delta.

"What do you think you're doing? Just because you're a wall of muscle doesn't mean you can manhandle—I said stop it!" O'Malley yelled, as Meta dragged him to the couch that Eddie had been placed on.

Meta stopped and let go of O'Malley. At the same time, he pointed down at Eddie. He was unconscious and chalk-white underneath the blood. His breathing was shallow, and despite Delta's attempts to stop the bleeding, blood was still oozing slowly.

As he pointed at Eddie, Meta let out a roar. One that shook the eardrums. Church usually couldn't understand what Meta was talking about as the man was, to Church's knowledge, incapable of speech. But that roar was extremely clear. It obviously meant 'fix him now or die.'

"You can't talk to me like that." O'Malley said. His tone was confident, but the fact that he'd gone almost as white as Eddie when Meta roared cancelled out that attempt at confidence.

Meta grabbed O'Malley by the collar again. This time, he pulled O'Malley towards him. And as Meta towered over everyone, O'Malley included, this resulted in him lifting O'Malley off the ground. At the same time, he let loose a quiet but dangerous growl. One that said, 'I'll do what I goddamn want, bitch.'

"If he tries to strangle you or kill you in physically impossible ways, I'm going to allow it," Delta said.

"Ghk," O'Malley muttered, unable to speak until Meta lowered him enough for his feet to touch the ground again. "Fine. But this is extortion."

"And performing a criminal act equal to or worse than extortion would be a completely new experience for us," Delta said dryly. "Start working as quickly as possible. Epsilon may not have much time."

"Yeah, and that'd be a shame, wouldn't it?" O'Malley growled. "Out of the way, Alpha. A sofa's no place to do surgery." Church gritted his teeth. Leaving Eddie in O'Malley's hands made him extremely nervous. But it had to be done. He moved out of the way. "Which is the cleanest room?"

"Uh, you can use my room, it's clean," Theta said, hurrying over and pushing open the door.

"It'll do." Face still twisted in a scowl, O'Malley snapped his fingers at Meta. "Take him to Theta's room. Be careful. Or don't, I don't really care. Just be grateful that I'm doing this."

Snarling quietly, Meta picked Eddie up carefully and carried him towards Theta's room.

"Should just let him die from infection," O'Malley muttered. "If you want him to live, stay out here and don't distract me."

* * *

The room was silent.

Church sat on the sofa that Eddie had been lying on, face buried in his hands. Whenever he heard even the tiniest sound come from Theta's room, he would look up. But as soon as he realised it wasn't O'Malley coming out to tell him whether it was a success or failure he dropped his head down again and returned to mentally freaking out.

Delta and Theta were seated on the couch with him. Delta wasn't moving or showing any signs of stress. He was just staring ahead unblinkingly, hands clasped neatly in his lap. He looked like someone waiting for the bus. Theta made up for it by constantly fidgeting and twisting his hands nervously. There was not a moment when he was still.

The only one of them not seated was Meta. He'd attempted to stay in Theta's room, but O'Malley had kicked him out because his growling put him on edge. Now he was pacing the room, all the while making an uneasy purring noise.

Not a word was spoken the whole time. It was only an hour, give or take some minutes, but to Church it felt like a few thousand years.

Finally, Theta's bedroom door swung open again. O'Malley walked out, plastic gloves covered in blood. He didn't say anything, just walked right into the bathroom. As Church got up and approached the room, he heard the snapping sound of O'Malley removing the plastic gloves, followed by running water and that little jingle he always hummed when he washed his hands.

Church stopped in the doorway and stared at O'Malley. "Well?"

"Well what?" O'Malley muttered.

"You know what!"

"At the moment he's sleeping. I fixed him. What did you expect? Now go away." O'Malley closed the door in Church's face.

Church stepped backwards before turning around and rushing into Theta's bedroom. Eddie was lying on the bed, eyes shut. His blood-soaked shirt had been removed and was lying in the corner. As Church got closer, he saw the line of neat stitching across the gash in his stomach.

Eddie was breathing steadily. He was still pale, but not as chalk white as he'd been.

Church's legs felt shaky all of a sudden. There were no chairs in the bedroom, so he sat on the edge of the bed, being careful not to bump Eddie.

Outside of the room, Theta had taken a few steps towards them, clearly wanting to check on Eddie as well, but Delta had tapped him on the shoulder and whispered something, gesturing at the computer in the corner. Theta frowned, but nodded and trotted off towards the computer instead. Delta walked into the room and peered down at Eddie.

"Epsilon is stable, I assume?"

"Yeah... I... I think so..." Church reached out to touch Eddie's wrist. He could feel the pulse. It was a huge relief. "God, I was... I was kinda expecting O'Malley to fuck up on purpose..."

"A legitimate fear." Delta glanced in the direction of the closed bathroom door before continuing. "We need to discuss what happened. In particular, our missing captive."

"Shit, yeah. That's right. What the hell happened?" Now that Eddie wasn't at death's door, the questions were pouring into Church's head. "Where did Washington go? And why the fuck did you shoot Gary? I mean, come on, shouldn't you have at least asked him questions first? I didn't really like Gary or anything... but shooting him like that? Cold."

"He was found with the knife that harmed Epsilon."

"And you saw him do it?"

"He was standing over the body. And I found evidence of his treachery in 2.0's data files."

"Did you see him do it?" Church repeated.

Delta hesitated before answering. "Negative. But logic would indicate that—"

"Goddammit, did you just start firing without asking questions?"

"Gamma is well known for being a convincing liar. I was not going to give him the chance to form a coherent excuse."

"Anyway, that still doesn't explain where the fuck Washington is! What if he brings cops back here?"

"Theta is trying to locate another safehouse now. We will move once he does, provided that Epsilon can be transferred without problems."

"The fucking running again..." Church rubbed his forehead, looking down at Eddie. "God, I'm sick of this shit. I went along with this criminal stuff so that I wouldn't have to keep running! So that me and Eddie could just hide and he wouldn't have to run or be attacked by crazy basement people! All it is now is running away and killing people. Aren't we supposed to be fucking smugglers or something? When was the last time we smuggled anything? Smuggling was crappy, but... yeah, smuggling was shit, too, I don't have any redeeming points except that I sorta knew how to do it! Gah, I hate this..."

Church got the sudden urge to kick a hole through the wall. He discovered a few seconds later that it's a bad idea to attempt to do this when barefoot. It hurts.

"OW FUCK."

"That was stupid," Delta observed.

"Shut up! God, I'm tired of it. I'm tired of the running, the killing, your stupid monotone voice and habit of fucking shooting everybody—"

"It was a logical reaction," Delta said in a slightly raised voice. "And I have shot very few people in my life. You have engaged in much more murder than I have."

"On your fucking orders! You know what? Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck smuggling, fuck Wash, I am fucking sick of all your shit." Delta didn't reply to that, he just crossed his arms and stared at Church. Church tried to think of something else to shout at him, because goddamn he wanted to shout. And instead he ended up looking down at Eddie. Still pale and motionless. And that just made him want to start crying. "Dude... it's not worth it," Church said, his tone now quiet and hoarse. "Hell, it was never worth it. It's... it's just more obvious now. Why can't you see that? You're supposed to be smart, aren't you?"

Delta lowered his gaze. "Sometimes it becomes difficult to see the value of this area of work."

"Then why do you keep doing it?!"

"Because I did not want Father's work to go to waste."

"Oh yeah, because killing and smuggling is so fucking important to the world, isn't it?!"

"That reason is purely emotional."

"You have emotions now?"

"From a more logical standpoint..." Delta continued, as if Church hadn't spoken. "I do not know how to do anything else."

"Bullshit, Dee! Bull-fucking-shit! You've got the smarts, don't you? Just use them to do something legit! Something besides shooting people in the fucking face before they have a chance to explain themselves!"

"It was a logical reaction, Alpha!"

"Oh yeah? Logical, was it? Will you start shooting me if I do something so suspicious as stand near someone injured?!"

"Shurrup," Eddie mumbled in his sleep. Church and Delta both stopped arguing immediately, but Eddie didn't say anything else.

"Should he be talking? Didn't O'Malley put him under for the stitching?" Church asked, voice quiet again. Although the urge to shout was still very much there.

"I do not believe we had any anaesthetic within reaching distance," Delta muttered.

"Fuck!"

Awkward silence ensued. Neither resumed shouting, but the tension from the argument was still there. Delta looked at Eddie, then stared in the direction of the basement. He eventually spoke.

"There's too much blood and other DNA in the basement. And, depending on how coherent Washington is and how quickly he reaches a higher authority, little chance of having enough time to clean it throughly. We will have to burn the house."

"What, seriously?"

"Would you rather we left it as it is? The entire house is covered in evidence and there is an extremely high chance that we will miss a piece of evidence even if we simply attempt to clean and pack away incriminating evidence."

"Okay, okay, burn it down."

"I will require a large amount of gasoline and some kind of explosive substance."

"You know where the fucking gasoline store is, don't you? I ain't moving from this room until Eddie's all good again."

"Affirmative. I will purchase what we require while Theta searches for a safehouse. We will leave as soon as possible. Judging by the difficulty of moving Epsilon, finding and lighting the fire, locating a new safehouse and transferring any necessary supplies... we should be able to leave at mid-afternoon tomorrow."

"That long? What if Wash—"

"It is an unavoidable risk. Most of us will be able to leave beforehand, but some must remain to light the fire and make sure it is burning strongly enough to destroy the evidence before the fire department gets here." Delta turned around to leave. "Look after Epsilon. That is your only job for the moment."

"...Alright."

Once Delta had left, Church located a chair from elsewhere in the house, dragged it into the bedroom and set it beside Eddie. He took a seat and waited for Eddie to regain consciousness.

He fell asleep before that could happen. The last thing he thought before he nodded off was that he'd forgotten to do something, but he couldn't remember what.

* * *

"No shit, that really happened? That's fucking crazy."

Church, still mostly asleep, heard conversation. Or more specifically, he heard one side of the conversation. The other half was only growling, and he could never understand that stuff.

"But Gary didn't do that. I think I'd remember it. Unless he did when I was out... how many stab wounds do I have?"

A short growl.

"Yeah, he definitely didn't do anything."

Church opened his eyes. He'd half-slid off his chair, and was using the bed as a pillow. When he looked up, he saw Meta sitting beside the bed. He and Eddie were engaged in a presumably interesting conversation. It was hard to tell.

"Eddie?" Church said sleepily.

"Oh, you're awake. Get off my foot. I've got pins and needles and you kept drooling in your sleep," Eddie said, twitching the foot that was directly underneath the part of the bed Church had been leaning on. Church sat up quickly.

"Sorry about that. Are you alright?"

"I feel great. The huge bitchass pain in my stomach isn't annoying at all," Eddie said sarcastically. "But it's just bitchass pain, it's not worse than that."

"How'd it happen?"

"Fucking Wash. Asshole stabbed me. That little bitch," Eddie said bitterly. "Last time I try to help anyone."

"Did Gary do anything?"

"Like I told Meta, no. He must have arrived afterwards, he wasn't even in the house when it happened," Eddie said.

"Fuck. That is... gonna be tough to explain to O'Malley. Ah, fuck him." Church frowned, the other part of what Eddie had said catching up. "Wait... you were helping him? What were you doing in there?"

"Uh. Um. Ahhh, well... uhhh..." Eddie looked really nervous. "I was... kinda setting him free."

"What?!"

"You were gonna kill him!" Eddie twisted his hands together. It was a movement very similar to the one Theta always did when she was nervous. "I didn't want that to happen. Although..." Eddie scowled. "If I'd known he was gonna stick a knife in my stomach... dunno if he was all there, though. He was all giggly."

"Well, yeah, he was in a basement for three months. Jesus, I can't believe you let him out! What the fuck were you—"

Meta snarled loudly, staring at Church. Church immediately stopped shouting. Eddie had just been stabbed, he didn't need to be screamed at now. He wasn't sure if that's what Meta was telling him, but it was the feeling he got from that growl. Church took a few deep breaths before talking again.

"Just... just get as much sleep as you can before we have to move."

"Yeah, okay. How long was I out for?"

"Fuck do I know? I wasn't keeping track of the time." Church looked at the window. He could see the faint colours of the sunrise. He must have slept at the foot of the bed all night. "Uh. It's early in the morning now, so..."

"Weren't you supposed to go somewhere with Tex? A steakhouse or something?"

"Eh? Oh." He was right. Tex had gone along with his suggestion of them having a proper dinner, but had chosen the most butch steakhouse she could find. Last night was when they'd been going there. Church wondered why she hadn't called him... but then recalled turning his phone off and tossing it somewhere the previous night. "Right."

"She's gonna fuck you up," Eddie mumbled. "Sorry."

"Oh, stop apologising," Church grumbled, before ruffling Eddie's hair. "You're more important than a stupid dinner. Anyway, I'm gonna check on what the others are doing. Get better, alright?"

As he left, he heard Eddie and Meta resume their conversation.

* * *

It was still very early when Tex's phone rang. She wasn't even at work yet, she was still browsing through her fridge and looking for something she could eat quickly. Very few people would call her that early in the morning.

She located her phone behind the sofa. She'd been rather angry the night before and had thrown it there. Luckily, it was a durable phone. It had suffered the brunt of her bitch fits before. She checked it and saw that Leonard was the one ringing. She flicked the phone open and held it to her ear.

"Tex, I—"

"Fuck off." Tex hung up. While nearly everything annoyed Tex to some degree, being stood up at a steakhouse was somewhat above average on the 'pisses-me-off' meter.

The phone rang again almost immediately. She contemplated whether to answer it or not, but figured she might as well hear his excuse. Just so she'd know how much shit she was gonna give him for this. She answered the phone again.

"Bitch, don't hang up on me!"

"Oh, so I'm the bitch here? Why'd you stand me up, cockbite?"

"There was..." There was a couple of moments of hesitation before Leonard kept talking. "There was this massive emergency. I was at the hospital. Otto... he, uh... he fell out a window. Glass in the stomach. Bad shit."

"You better not be lying."

"Why would I lie about this?"

"Because I'd totally fuck you up if you used any excuse other than death or injury in the family. I mean it, if this is a lie I'm gonna pull your skull outta your head and beat you to death with it."

"That doesn't seem physically possible..."

"I'll make it possible."

"But seriously, I'm actually telling the truth. I'm not gonna be around for a while, I'm gonna be with Otto in the hospital, so..."

"Which hospital?"

"Uhhhh... uh, that would be... uhhh... uhhh..."

"Yeah, thought so. Fuck off." Tex hung up again and threw her phone across the room again. Fucking bastard, giving her that crappy excuse. Like she'd believe that he had to take Otto to the hospital without asking details. She was a fucking cop, it was her job to see through that kind of thing.

A few moments later, she picked up the phone again and ran off to work. Now Leonard had wasted the time she needed to grab breakfast. Bastard.

* * *

Her phone didn't ring again until about midday. At that point, Tex was doing her paperwork. The station was relatively quiet lately. Not much was happening in their part of the city. It was a nice change. Tex had actually been approaching a good mood until her phone had rung again.

She put down her pen and checked the phone. Leonard. Again. She flicked the phone open.

"I said fuck off, which of those two words don't you understand?" she snapped.

"This isn't Leonard."

Tex frowned. The voice was unfamiliar to her. But something about the voice was very eerie. It was the sort of voice where if you heard it in a dark alleyway you would shit yourself in fear. Even if they were just lost and asking for directions.

"Yeah? Why you got his phone, then?"

"Oh, I'm simply borrowing it while he's distracted. If we wish to converse after this, I will call you through other means. But I'd simply like to tell you a few things."

"I'm kinda busy at the moment."

"So I would assume. But I'm sure most of this is relevant to your area of business."

Tex frowned, before locating a notepad and her pen. It couldn't hurt to hear this man out.

"Alright. Who're you?"

"My real name shall stay secret. But I am commonly known as Omega. Now, my first piece of information. That 'excuse' your dear boyfriend gave you was quite legitimate in most ways. His younger brother was very badly injured. I was the surgeon, and I am perfectly able to confirm the seriousness of the injury. Of course, some of the details were rearranged."

"So, it was part excuse? What's wrong with the rest of it?"

"Well, for example... it wasn't glass that injured his little brother. And the reason he couldn't give a hospital was because he didn't go to one."

"Oh, I fucking knew it," Tex muttered.

"You did, did you?"

"The flinching at me being a policewoman, avoiding questions about where the parents were and anything about his past... he's a kidnapper, isn't he? Or a domestic abuser or... something like that. God, I should have known, I've heard a lot of his excuses so many times—"

"Wrong end of the stick there, Allison."

"Eh?"

"Leonard is many bad things. But he is not a kidnapper nor a domestic abuser. I'm sure he would be offended at the accusation. He is quite caring towards his little brother and it would be a struggle to separate the two, willingly or not."

"Ahh." Tex frowned. "Then what happened? Tell me."

"Well, first of all... did you know that they are giving you false names?"

"Leonard's name isn't—"

"Oh, well, Leonard is part of it. That was to make up for a slip-up, I'm told. But it's his first name, not his middle name. They are not Ritchie and Otto Kerk. Do a search on two siblings called Leonard and Eddie Church. Although I believe they're originally from a different state."

"Why would I believe you?"

"You know something is off about Leonard, don't you? You were a little too quick to jump to some bad conclusions. If you want more proof of his activities... in exactly one hour he intends to burn much of the evidence. I can give you the address. He will be there alone."

Tex's pen hovered over the notepad. She didn't even know who this 'Omega' guy was. Or if he could be trusted. And even barring that... there was part of her who didn't want to know if there was any truth to what he was saying.

"Why're you telling me this?"

"Because I'm very angry right now."

Part of her didn't want to hear it... but the rest of her was wondering just how many lies Leonard had fed her.

Tex hesitated for one more moment. "Give me the address."

* * *

"God, how much gasoline did you get?" Church muttered. He was holding his mobile in one hand and a container of gasoline in the other, and he was pouring it over the floor of the living room. Any essentials had been removed earlier that day. Now he was the only one left in the house. A trail of gasoline ran from one end of the house to the other, and into all the adjacent rooms. Delta had also put piles of... something... in each room. Church didn't know what it was, but apparently it was very explosive. As soon as it started burning it would destroy the room it was in. And Delta had measured it very specifically so that it would destroy the insides of the house, but not the houses around it.

"A large amount. Do you want me to run through the exact amounts of explosive materials in that house again?"

"No, I was barely listening the first time, anyway."

"Very well."

Church dropped the container of gasoline on the carpet. It continued to leak out onto the carpet. Putting the mobile down, Church tugged his hoodie over his head before going for the matches. He didn't want anyone to see his face when he was running off. Didn't need to add more problems to the pile. He tied a bandana over the bottom half of his face before picking up the mobile again.

"All ready. Everything good over there? Eddie doing okay?"

"We are doing as well as we can be, considering the circumstances. Burn it down."

"Alright. See you in a bit."

* * *

"So, some crazy person just happened to call you and tell you about this." The other cop in the car with Tex stared at her skeptically. "And you think this is a good idea? Really? Just to drive over there?"

"If I'm wrong, then all we've done is waste a bit of time," Tex said calmly. "And you can tell the boss that it's my fault. If I'm right, then I'm goddamn right. And being right is awesome. So shut up."

"Not very professional."

"Yeah, yeah."

There was silence for a couple of minutes. Until the other cop squinted at something floating in the sky above the next street.

"Look. Smoke."

"Told you so." As Tex turned into the street, it was easy to see the house. Flames were already licking at the windows and smoke was pouring out heavier every minute.

The other cop picked up the radio and started talking into it. "We got a fire down here, possible arson, we need—Tex, what the fuck are you doing?!"

Tex had pulled up on the curb and jumped out. "There might be someone in there, I'm going in."

"Are you insane?! Get back here, wait for the fire department!"

Tex wasn't listening. She shoved open the door.

* * *

Church threw the lit match at the gasoline. Unfortunately for him, he was standing far too close to it. It flared up immediately and the flames scorched his hand. Church yelped and shook his hand, staring at the burns.

"Son of a fucking bi—"

The flames were catching onto the rest of the gasoline very quickly. Too quickly. They reached Theta's room within a few seconds. The resulting explosion was, as Delta had predicted, not too large. But the noise... the noise caused Church's ears to ring, and even the small explosion was too close. It sent him stumbling back.

"Oh god! God, my ears!"

He didn't know how long he had his hands clasped over his ears, unable to concentrate on anything but the goddamn ringing.

All he knew was that he snapped out of it when the door slammed open. And in the doorway stood Tex.

There was one split moment when they stared at each other. And Church knew that despite the fact he had his face covered and a hoodie over his head... she knew it was him. She mouthed something. Or maybe she said it out loud. Church's ears were still ringing.

But Church knew what she'd said, even though he couldn't hear.

'Church.'

She knew.

He turned around and ran for it. Even though he knew he couldn't outrun Tex. He had to try.

He made it a few feet from the house before the next explosion went off. Part of the roof collapsed. He looked back to see what had happened to Tex. She'd been knocked aside by the force of the explosion, and had her hands clasped over her ears like he had not long ago. But she was fine otherwise. Just slowed down.

Church took the chance. He climbed over the back fence and ran quickly through someone's backyard before someone had the chance to look out the window and see him. By the time Tex had gathered her wits enough to follow, he was a couple of yards away and near the car that he'd left parked over the other side of the block, ready to flee in.

It was still close. When he got into the car, started it up and slammed on the accelerator, Tex was vaulting over the last fence, having sprinted the distance while barely slowing down for the fences. But even she couldn't keep up with a car on foot.

Church spent the whole trip to the new safehouse just... shellshocked. Both from the explosions—his ears were still fucking ringing—and from the fact that Tex had been there. How had she known? She didn't even know his address, he'd always gone to her place. How did she know who he really was? He hadn't used the name Church in any official way since he was nineteen.

How'd she know?

But it didn't really matter, did it? That was over now. Whatever had been between him and Tex was over. It didn't get much more over than being caught blowing up his own house and being called out on a name he hadn't really used since killing his father.

The last trace of normalcy he had in his life was gone now. It had all gone to shit.

* * *

"They look clean. Unfortunately," O'Malley muttered, examining Epsilon's stitches carefully. Meta was standing there, watching him sternly. He'd taken to either staying in Epsilon's room or following O'Malley wherever he went. Like O'Malley was just going to suddenly run into Epsilon's room and stick a scalpel between his eyes.

That would be interesting, admittedly. Most of O'Malley's victims were at least in their mid-twenties. Although it would have been more fascinating to attack Epsilon back when he was a child. Teenagers are just tinier, whinier adults. That's no fun.

"Will you stop staring at me?" O'Malley snapped. Meta growled at him in return. An obvious no.

Epsilon was frowning at the ceiling. "Leo is late," he said quietly. "What if something happened?"

"He's just setting fire to a house. Probably messed up and set fire to himself," O'Malley said. He resisted the urge to grin. And also felt a mild sadness over the fact that he couldn't see Church get caught by his girlfriend in one of the most difficult to explain situations that a couple could go through, outside of being caught in a gay threesome or having a bunch of skinned corpses hanging from the ceiling. (O'Malley had personally gone through the corpses scenario. He'd skipped the explaining and added that particular girlfriend to the collection on the ceiling.)

Just as O'Malley was pondering this, the front door slammed open. And they all heard Church yell.

"O'Malley! You fucker, I know that was your fault!"

_Well. Darn. _

"Stop shouting. You're making my ears sting," O'Malley complained. The door was shoved open. Church stood there, looking absolutely livid. There were burns on his hands. Seems O'Malley's prediction had been somewhat true.

"What is it now?"

"You. You told Tex, didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fucking liar! How would Tex know where I live or to show up at that time? Who else would rat me out? You told her! Why the fuck would you do that?" Epsilon and Meta were looking between the two as they argued, like they were watching a tennis match.

Nothing was going to dissuade Church from believing this. O'Malley went with the truth.

"Because it was amusing. I joined this little organization because I thought it would be amusing. But it's not. It's just run, kill quickly and don't stick around to play with the bodies. And I'm sick of it. I'd rather remove certain bricks and watch the whole tower collapse."

"Fucking bastard. Where's a gun?"

"Leo? Are you going to shoot him?" Epsilon looked uncomfortable. He never could stomach death or gratuitous gore.

"He just admitted to being the traitor!"

"I was completely loyal until today. Until your little dumbass of a brother wandered down and freed the prisoner! And until Delta started jumping to conclusions and shooting people who clearly weren't traitors!"

"This about Gary?"

"He had nothing to gain from betraying us! He wouldn't have done it!"

"And that makes betraying us alright, does it? Where's my damn gun?!"

"You're not going to shoot me."

"Oh yeah?" Church still looked furious. He was glancing around the room, as if hoping to find a gun on the shelf. However, the new hideout was almost entirely bereft of any sort of furniture, save for Epsilon's bed.

"First of all, you were rather annoyed about Delta's trigger-happy moment."

"Yeah, but... you admitted to ratting me out!"

"I have another reason. I saved Epsilon's life with that surgery. You owe me."

"You tried to get me killed!"

"Not killed. Just locked away. There's a difference. And you're not locked away, are you? No harm done."

"Leo..." Eddie said quietly. "Can't we just... I don't want more people to die."

"It's O'Malley!"

"I know, but..."

"You. Owe. Me," O'Malley said slowly.

Church twitched a little. Then he stepped backwards out of the room and pointed towards the front door.

"Get out. And if you start spilling information again... then I'm gonna find you and blow your head off."

"Oh, you won't hear from me again. At least not for a while. I think I need to pursue some other... erm... entertainments for a while. Working with the same people for so long gets rather stale."

O'Malley was fine with walking away. Church was annoying, as was his little brat of a brother. But his hatred for them was of completely normal levels. It wasn't them who had gunned down Gary.

But revenge was a dish best served cold. It would be more fun to attack Delta when he didn't expect it.

In the meantime? He had one more phone call to make.

* * *

The chief of police was shouting at her. Tex couldn't hear him that well. Her ears were still ringing from the explosion. The whole house had collapsed not long after Church had fled the scene. Forensics were going through it now, but they were finding little in the way of evidence. The whole place had been scorched clean.

Tex didn't say that her ears were still ringing. She could catch just enough faint words to know that the chief was saying nothing too constructive. Mostly just 'what the fuck were you thinking.'

If she strained her ears, she could hear him.

"Running right into a building laced with explosives... what were you thinking, Texas? And on that matter, how did you even know that building was going to go up? And why didn't you tell anyone?"

"I didn't know it was going to be explosive. I thought it was only going to be fire."

"That's still not an excuse! You call the fire department, you don't go running in and trying to get yourself killed. You could have been hit by the collapsing roof, you could have choked on the smoke, it does no good for anyone to run in like that! And how, exactly, did you know the building would be on fire in the first place?"

"An anonymous tipoff. From someone called Omega. I don't know anything about him besides that. Except that he said he was a surgeon. He says that the burning was done by someone called Leonard Church, but he may be going by the name of Ritchie Kerk." Tex tried not to imply that she knew Church in any way. "I suggest we do a search on him."

"And why did this anonymous tipper call you, of all people?"

"I don't know, sir."

"In any case, we need to wait until forensics has finished studying the place. Concentrate on your own workload. And if you receive any more anonymous tips, bring them to me. Don't go running off into burning buildings because of them! I know you're not the most by-the-book cop, but that's suicidal."

"Yes, sir. I'm aware of that."

"Now get to work on the paperwork, there's going to be a ton of it for you running off. Do anything like that again and there will be huge consequences."

Tex returned to her desk and started working on the paperwork.

Eventually, her phone rang again. This time it was from an unknown caller. But Omega's voice was on the other line.

"You failed to catch him, didn't you?"

"How do you even know about all this?"

"I'm very close to your dear Leonard. I mean that in a literal sense, of course. I personally can't stand him. He annoys me. Moving on, I suppose you want to catch him? After all, you've been lied to. You're not going to take that, are you? And the crimes that he's done. I mean, there are some pretty bad ones. Smuggling. Murder. Occasionally parking in handicapped spots. I could go on."

"Fine. Tell me where he is."

"See, that doesn't work for me at the moment."

"Why not?"

"Well... there's other people with him that I don't want to get captured just yet. I have some things to settle with them, which I don't wish to finish at the moment because I've been specifically warned to stay away."

"How many of you are there?"

"That's irrelevant. Church is the, shall we say, alpha wolf of their little pack. Now, I can tell you what information I know. And it might help you catch him. It might not. I'm sure it'll be interesting in any case."

"Why are you telling me this? Why not just call some other part of the police? Someone who has the ability to do something?"

"Frankly, because it's much more amusing to drag you into this. I want these people to suffer because I'm into that."

"Sick bastard."

"I'm very aware that my tastes in amusement are rather different from the norm. You don't have to rub it in. It'll hurt my feelings. Now, I have a limited amount of time to speak, but I do have some leads you might want to chase up until I can find a way for you to ambush your boyfriend. Unfortunately, I have been chased out of the group and so my information is now more limited. They discovered I was feeding information to you after the fire. Pity."

"Oh, that's surprising. I mean, judging by the whole implied 'sadistic fucktard' thing, you seem like a lovely, non-suspicious guy to hang around," Tex said sarcastically.

"Do you want to hear my information on what they're doing next or not?"

Tex rubbed her forehead, staring down at the new stack of paperwork on her desk. "Fine. What are they doing?"

"They plan to kill someone called the Director. Given that you're a cop, you may have heard of him."

Tex's hand jerked slightly as she heard this, causing her to accidentally knock over her little container of pencils. She started straightening them up, suddenly feeling numb. Of all the people... it had to be her father. Apparently the world was set on dragging him back into her life no matter how often she tried to distance herself. She supposed someone being after her father wasn't a shock, he was a massive criminal... but of all the people to go out with...

Tex's voice betrayed nothing about her shock, even if the few seconds of silence beforehand probably did. "Yes, I've heard of the Director. But we have no idea who or where he is." Half a lie. Tex knew who he was, obviously, but she still didn't have a clue where he lived nowadays.

"Well, my co-workers are staging an attack on his home. Now, isn't that fascinating? You could do so much with that information. Although... perhaps you'd like to leave it?"

"Leave it?"

"Well... suppose you managed to locate Church before he pulled off this major murder. On one hand... you would have Church arrested. On the other hand... he is trying to destroy perhaps the biggest source of crime in the city. Which, despite the positive effects this would have, you would be obliged as a policewoman to stop."

Tex rubbed her forehead. He had a point, as much as she hated to admit it. It would certainly save her the headache of hunting him down and arresting him herself, and if her father kicked the bucket during all this... well, no skin off her back.

"That also brings into question whether you want to stop Church at all..."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You were rather close, weren't you?"

"Are you trying to talk me out of this now? Change of heart, Omega?"

"I'm giving you a choice, that's all. It's more fun that way, Allison. Can I call you Allison?"

"No."

"But it's such a pretty name..." Omega said in a faux-sweet voice.

"Can it."

"Well, if you're that uncomfortable with it. Would you like what information I have on the murders and other crimes Church has committed? Or would you like to remain blissfully ignorant?"

One moment of hesitation. Just the one.

"Fuck it, tell me."

* * *

"One more."

"No. Fuck off."

"Once we have terminated the Director, I will let you leave. But I require your help for this. We are already too low in numbers," Delta said. "You and Meta are the only ones who can work in the field now."

"What about Theta? He can still shoot."

"I am not allowing it. He... is less mobile."

"You're just feeling protective and shit, aren't you?"

"Regardless, he is still less mobile."

Two days after the fire they were sitting on the floor of the new safehouse, as it had very little furniture. It had one chair that was falling apart and a couple of beds. That was it. It was all Theta could locate on such short notice.

"Ugh, not the point. It's always just 'one more,'" Church grumbled. "One more, one more, one more. Soon it's been a hundred more, and the next one is still 'that last one.' Fuck off, I'm not going it. Me and Eddie are leaving. Don't know where we're going, but we're getting the hell out while we still can."

"I understand that you are upset, but..."

"Goddamn right I'm upset! Fucking O'Malley."

"Please stop shouting," Eddie grumbled, just loud enough to be heard a room away.

"If you quit now... then all the deaths and injuries would have occurred for no reason," Delta said slowly. "All the difficulties... you losing your girlfriend, the torture of Washington, Sigma... it would all have occurred for no reason at all. I will not let that happen."

Church scowled, looking down at his hand. It was bandaged because of the burns he'd received. His hearing also wasn't quite right after that explosion, though it was mostly back to normal.

"And what's gonna happen if we do go ahead with it? Sure, we might kill the Director. Big fucking whoop. And if we don't, then we fail. Then the Director's men probably kill us and we all... you know... fucking die! And then it'll still be for nothing! But I suppose you're gonna shoot me if I disagree!"

"Will you stop implying that I am a trigger-happy simpleton?" Delta muttered.

"Guys, I can hear you. Can't you argue quieter? I shouldn't be able to hear you this far away," Eddie said.

"And we shouldn't be able to hear you, but these walls are really thin. I could probably punch through the damn things," Church muttered.

"Alpha..."

"Besides, what the hell am I supposed to do? It's not like I'm particularly good at this garbage."

"You keep your head. You do not freeze up or panic. You do not get overly trigger-happy or bloodthirsty, like Meta. I do not want to shed more blood than is necessary..."

"Too late for that."

"But the Director must be dealt with. I doubt he will let us be if he discovers our location. If I were in his position, I would want to terminate any loose ends. It is for our own safety as much as it is for vengeance and personal gain. And if you must die, would you rather do it in his house, face to face and prepared to fight, or would you rather wait until he finds both you and Epsilon and murders both of you in your sleep?"

Church considered this for a few moments before saying, "Shit."

"I will assume that is an agreement. Now, will you look over the plans with me?" Delta gestured at the paper laid out in front of him. Church didn't move forward.

"If I do this... if I get rid of the Director... I want you to promise that you'll let me and Eddie leave. That you won't try to shoot us—"

"Please stop bringing that up."

"You threatened to shoot me the first time we met!"

"While true, I do not intend to shoot you now. I believe you are trustworthy." Delta motioned for Church to edge closer to the plans. Church did so. The plans were separated on three pieces of paper. Looking at them, Church noticed that each piece detailed something different. "Each one of these plans is customised for each person. I will stay in the van. Physical fighting is not my strength and I will be more useful back there."

"As usual, yeah."

"You and Meta will have different objectives. Taking into account your questionable skill with firearms...

"It's just bad luck!"

"Then it is very consistent bad luck. You do have the most important job. You will be the one to take out the Director. I presume you cannot miss at point-blank range."

"Er, there was that one time—"

"Meta will take out as much of the security as quietly as possible, in order to make the exit clearer, while I will guide you to the Director." Delta tapped the piece of paper that had his own information on it. Church saw that it was not written instructions, like for him and Meta, but sketches of rooms with little squares and lines representing cameras. "If all goes to plan, I will gain control of the security footage. I will inform you of when the security is offline, and will guide you through the building. I will guide you to the Director and you can terminate him. Is this plan up to your standards?"

"...I guess." Church pulled a face. "Doesn't mean I like it. But... yeah, he won't leave us alone if he manages to find us. Okay. One last mission."

* * *

At home, Tex went through the various files she had dug up in the last couple of days.

One folder contained the only files she could find that contained mentions of both a Leonard and an Eddie Church. The records stated that, ten years ago, a nineteen-year-old Leonard Church and six-year-old Eddie Church had vanished from their home. The father of the household had been murdered and left there. The case had never been solved, since by the time they found the corpse any possible lead had gone cold. Domestic murder was suspected, but with no trace of the two sons it was only speculation. There'd never been much pressure to solve the case, because there'd been no family members or friends expressing concern.

It was the only mention of either of them she could find. It filled in a lot of blanks, however. They'd clearly fled and changed their names. And since a six-year-old could hardly murder a full-grown adult, the father's death was obviously Church's fault. Clear motivation for getting the fuck out of there.

Amazingly, that wasn't what troubled her the most.

Tex shoved the folder aside and retrieved the other one. Much more recent. Tex had just been skimming over recent files when she came across it. It was something that should have come to her attention much earlier, but she hadn't been at her best three months ago.

She flipped through the files until she reached the autopsy files of a body that had been identified as Stefan Siegfried. Loopy name. Felt fake to Tex. According to the research done on this man, he seemed to go through extensive periods of just... not being there, although he would usually resurface here and there.

Tex focused on the photos. Most were of the corpse. One was of the man back when he was alive. A bald man with a slightly eerie air about him, though it wasn't something Tex could put her finger on.

She'd seen him before, the night before Carolina turned up full of bullets. In fact, he'd introduced Church to her, just before dragging Carolina away for a talk. Tex had assumed it was an old friend of Carolina's and left it at that. Especially since she and Carolina had been in the midst of one of their usual fights. The only reason they'd been at the same club was because her brother-in-law was insistent that they at least try and get along. York could be annoyingly soft, sometimes.

The bald man distracting Carolina had been welcome at the time, and he definitely hadn't been the cause of trouble that night, because York mentioned to the cops, when they questioned him about the last time he'd seen Carolina, that the last time had been in the morning before she went to work. But despite the fact that the bald man had turned up dead just a few days after Carolina was brought to the hospital, the autopsy wrote his time of death as the same day Carolina was gunned down.

Tex wasn't sure what it all meant. But there were clearly connections between Church, Carolina and the dead, bald man. And since Church was the only one alive out of these three, she had to assume the worst.

Had he been responsible for Carolina's death? She was her father's best agent... if Church was after the Director, it would make sense.

Tex's fists were clenched on the desk. She liked to pretend that nothing mattered to her, because she was a badass island among a sea of douchebags. But some things did matter. Carolina was one. And maybe Church had been another one. But she felt betrayed right now. She felt dirty, like she'd just sat in something unpleasant. Because not only had Church possibly murdered her sister, but Tex had... well, they'd been together, with everything that entailed... the drinking and the sex and the tolerating of each other's presence... And the day Carolina had died, even though Tex had started a huge fight with him that day, he'd returned a week later and they'd been fine, and she'd... been grateful for it...

And all this time, it was his fault.

He was going down.

Irritatingly, Omega's words kept echoing in her head. About if she wanted to catch Church at all. What a retarded question. Of course she wanted to catch Church. He was a prick. Burning shit and murdering people and standing her up at steakhouses... She wasn't having second thoughts at all, dammit. Even if he wasn't responsible for Carolina.

Didn't matter what they might have been before. Right now, he was a criminal and she was a cop. And that would only end one way.

* * *

"So, we're leaving?"

"After the Director is dealt with. This shit isn't gonna end well if I keep it up," Church said. Eddie just slowly blinked at him. He'd spent a lot of the last couple of days sleeping, and always seemed somewhat drowsy. "I really don't want to leave you here again, but..."

"It's fine. Theta will be here, right?" Eddie muttered.

"Yeah. Still doesn't feel right..."

"It'll be fine. You won't be gone for that long, right?"

"I hope not. Anyway, once you're good to move, we'll just... go. Somewhere. I dunno. Where do you want to go?"

"I dunno. I still like it here. Not the criminal stuff, but... I mean, Dee and Theta and Meta are pretty much the only people I know besides you that I actually like. Well, the ones still alive, anyway."

"Meta still disturbs me. He keeps staring and growling."

"But it's like being friends with a really big cat. Like a puma. Except more fun to talk with."

"Well, that's just weird. Anyway, we gotta go somewhere, so think of a place because I've got absolutely no clue. And then I gotta get some kind of legitimate job. Crap, I don't know how to do anything." Church groaned and flopped down onto the floor, putting his hands behind his head. "God, it's gonna suck. How am I supposed to explain being a twenty-nine-year-old with no job experience who is apparently worth hiring?"

"That seems like it's gonna be a fucking bitch," Eddie said sleepily.

"Massive bitch."

There was some silence before Eddie asked, "You alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"There's a lot of reasons, everything's kinda generally shit. But I was referring to the Tex thing."

"Fuck her, she was a bitch anyway," Church muttered bitterly.

"Yeah, but..."

"Seriously. I don't... I don't want to think about her."

But now that Eddie had mentioned it, Church was stuck thinking about her again. Why the fuck did she have to be a cop? Of all the things in the world... hell, dating a prostitute would have been better. Why'd she have to find out?

There had been some vague idea floating around Church's head about quitting crime and sticking around Tex before the fire. She'd been the only normal thing left in his life. Even Eddie... Church loved his little brother more than anything, but the lengths he had to go to keep Eddie around weren't normal. With Tex, there weren't any strings like that. He didn't have to worry about things when he was with her... all that was over now. And Church hadn't been ready to let it end, dammit.

Once Church left Eddie's room, passing Meta who was heading in there, he just kept wandering around the almost bare hideout. He tried to think about anything besides Tex. But he couldn't.

Eventually, he turned around and left the hideout, heading for the nearest phone box. When he reached it, without really thinking, he put some coins in and dialled Tex's number. He would have used his mobile, but he'd discarded it after the fire since there was no-one else worth calling anymore.

The phone got picked up quickly.

"What?!"

"Tex?"

A long moment of silence. So long that Church had started to wonder if the phoneline had been cut somehow.

Finally, Tex said, "You fucking cockbite."

"Yeah, uh... yeah."

"What do you want? Unless you're calling to turn yourself in, I'm not interested."

"I can't do that."

"Can too. Then what do you want, asshole?"

"I... I don't know." Church hadn't really given it any thought.

"How could you not know?"

"I don't know, dammit! I just... I just... seriously, I don't know why I'm calling."

"Yeah? That your excuse for everything? Does that cover all the murders?"

"How much do you know?"

"Well, there's Siegfried."

"Who?"

"That guy who introduced us, cockbite! Did you kill him?"

"Sigma? No! Why would I kill him? He was... okay, he was creepy, but... no, he was killed by someone called Carolina!"

There was a long sigh on the other end. "How's that make sense? They were talking the day before, weren't they?"

"They... eh?"

"You were there. Your 'Sigma' friend dragged you over, introduced us and then carted away my sister. And the next day, she turns up dead."

"...Carolina's your sister?" Church mumbled.

So it could have been worse, after all.

"She was. She isn't anything any more. Thanks to you." The fact that Tex hadn't yelled that at him made Church realise that she was far beyond her usual 'swear and throw things' method of anger.

"Whoa, wait. I didn't kill her, okay?"

"Then who did, Church?"

"I... I..." Church shut his eyes and leaned against the phone. "I... can't say."

"Why? If it wasn't you—"

"Look, sister or not... she tried to shoot us, alright? And... the guy who did it... she shot his best friend and his little brother. And you know what? She could have easily let us walk, we were trying to get the fuck out of there. Can you really—"

"Yes. Yes, I can still blame you. And come on. Little brother? You doing the old 'it was really me but I'm claiming it was a friend' thing?"

"No! Like I'd take Ot—shit, you know, might as well just say his name—like I'd take Eddie anywhere that dangerous, he didn't get shot. Look... I've done a lot of bad shit. I know that, alright? It isn't a fucking picnic. I just did it to protect Eddie."

"Killing people is your way of being a good big brother, is it?"

"Yes! Look... I know I don't deserve to walk free. But..."

"That's right. And you're not going to walk free. You're going down."

"I'm quitting, alright? I'm done with all this garbage."

"Oh, well, why didn't you just say so?" Tex said sarcastically. "In that case, every shitty thing you did is forgiven! The law doesn't work that way, douchebag. It's not a game that you can quit when you get bored of it. This is gonna end with you in a prison cell. Provided I don't 'accidentally' shoot you on the way."

"Come on, Tex... If you find me and charge me for all the stuff I've ever done... then the Director or one of the fuckton of people I've pissed off over the years will be able to find me. And if they can find me, they can find Eddie. I don't care what happens to me, it's him I'm worried about! Someone already stabbed him! ...Uh. That's actually why I skipped out on the steakhouse thing. Guess it doesn't matter if you know, now."

"So, what? You think after all the smuggling, murder, arson and setting me up at steakhouses... you think I'll just go 'you're forgiven' and let you walk off? Do you think quitting will undo the shit you did?"

"Well, I figured you would say no... But I had to try, didn't I? I guess... I guess I'll just have to not let you catch me, then."

"Yeah, good luck with that. Because it's not happening."

"For what it's worth, Tex..." Church rubbed his forehead. A headache was building. "I'm really sorry that... that this shit happened. And..." Church wanted to apologise for a lot. To say sorry for lying. To say sorry for what Delta did to Carolina. To say sorry for making it so impossible for them to stay together and for never saying just how much she meant to him, even though they hadn't known each other that long... but Tex interrupted before he could say anything else.

"Yeah, you know what? I don't care."

Tex hung up. Church stared at the phone for a few minutes before hanging up and slowly walking back to the safehouse. The whole phone call was a waste of time, anyway... He couldn't change what had occurred. Might as well forget it ever happened.

* * *

One week later, it was time. Only Theta and Epsilon were left in the house.

Theta sat beside Eddie's bed, face rested in his hands. Eddie was asleep. He'd been asleep when the others left. Church had walked in before he left, looked at Eddie for a bit, then left without a word to Theta. Meta had done basically the same thing, though he'd made a snarly noise at Theta. Delta had given Theta a list of possible things to do while they were gone, mostly concerning the locating of a better safehouse. Or at least one that had furniture.

Theta had made the list into a paper airplane, and was playing around with it. He tossed the airplane across the room a few times. Once it landed on Eddie's face, but he didn't move. Theta looked at Eddie, then waved his hand in front of his face. Then he tried nudging him in the shoulder. Nothing. Eddie could not have been in a deeper sleep.

Partly because Theta had spiked his water with sleeping pills. He felt terrible about it, but if he hadn't... well, Eddie might try to stop him leaving.

"Sorry," Theta mumbled, before climbing to his feet. He retrieved his favourite handgun from his room and left the house. He'd be a bit behind, seeing as he could only travel to the Director's home on skateboard, but he knew the shortcuts that a van couldn't make it through. He'd only be a few minutes behind.

A few minutes was all he needed.

* * *

The drive to the Director's house was silent. Church sat in the back of the van with Meta. Meta wasn't expressing any emotion at all. He was holding a rifle, but for some reason he'd taped a knife to the top of it. The only movement he made was checking and re-checking the 'knifle.' At the front of the van, Delta was driving and staring ahead. Face set. Not even blinking. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, the only hint that he was feeling any emotion at all.

Looking around, it really hit Church how few of them there were. Last time they had driven this van to a mission, there had been seven of them. Now there were three.

The van slowed to a stop. They were still far down the street, but they could see the Director's house from here. It was big and fancy, but not in an 'in your face' kind of way. But there were plenty of cars parked in the driveway. Most likely belonging to the bodyguards.

"Meta. Proceed," Delta said quietly.

Meta growled quietly, putting on his headset. Then he slipped out of the van and headed towards the house, quickly fading into the shadows. Delta adjusted his own headset to confirm it was working. Judging by the lack of reaction, there was no noise on Meta's end.

Delta was still gripping the steering wheel tightly. His lips moved soundlessly. If Church hadn't known Delta so well, he might have thought it was a silent prayer. But since it was Delta, he assumed Delta was just reminding himself of the logical reasons why this would work. His eyes were focused on the laptop he'd brought with him, which was open in his lap.

One noise came through. A choking sound. Hrnk.

"Meta? What's your status?" Delta asked.

There was a moment of silence before Delta's headset made a soft, almost purring noise. It sounded like Meta's attempt to whisper.

"...Affirmative. Continue."

"What's going on?" Church asked.

"Guard. Meta eliminated him."

"I almost feel sorry for the guy."

Delta didn't reply. He just waited. There was another couple of minutes of silence. Then Delta's laptop screen flickered, and security footage appeared on it. Delta started tapping the keys, and the screen cycled between cameras.

"Few guards. Easily avoidable," Delta murmured. He cycled through more footage before settling on a view of the kitchen, where three men were sitting. One was rifling through the fridge. "Enter through the right, into the kitchen, and take care of as much of the security as you can. Do not give away your position unless it is obvious they know we have infiltrated."

Another soft growl came through.

Delta kept cycling through the cameras until he came to some footage of a room that looked like a study or a library of sorts. There was one man in there, sitting at a desk and reading. He was dressed in a suit, and looked more at ease in his surroundings than the other people walking through the house. There was a bodyguard in the room with him.

"I will assume that is the Director, judging by the difference in attire and demeanour. Alpha. Your part of the mission starts now. Approach the house. I will tell you when to turn. While Meta clears away the security, go to the library and eliminate the Director."

"Alright. Let's get this over with."

Church clambered out of the van and quickly made his way towards the house. Church was worried that someone was going to wander out and see him, but no-one did. He slipped past the fence, which was wooden and about knee-height, and pressed against the side of the garage.

"Okay," Church muttered. "What now?"

"Give me three more seconds," Delta muttered. After a short pause, he said, "I have fed a loop to some of the cameras, but there is no guarantee that the guards will not notice. Enter through the garage, make your way into the hallway and enter the third room on your left. Be as silent as possible."

"No, really, I was going to make as much noise as—"

"Alpha, this is no time for sarcasm."

"Right, right..."

Every nerve Church had felt like it was conducting electricity. He practically had a heart attack when the side door to the garage creaked as he nudged it open.

As he slipped into the hallway, Delta whispered, "A guard is coming. Enter the nearest room."

"What if he goes in—"

"Now."

"Okay, okay."

Church slipped into the room, the door creaking slightly as he closed it. The room he entered was a bedroom. He stayed pressed against the wall, listening. He heard footsteps walk down the hallway, and another door open and shut.

"Wait in that room until I tell you otherwise," Delta informed him.

Church didn't reply. He just peered around the bedroom. Mostly normal, touches of class in the dark, polished wood floor. But one wall was entirely covered with family photos. Church glanced at the door, before wandering closer to the photos.

"Alpha, what are—"

"Just looking."

Church looked at the photos. His eyes landed on the woman in them, and he had to cover his mouth to stop himself yelping. It was Tex.

What the fuck.

After a few moments, he studied it closer. There was a man in a suit and square glasses in the photo as well. The closeness and comfort in the photo suggested they were a couple. What, had Tex been married this entire time? But no, that didn't... click right. Church squinted at the woman. Then he looked at some of the other photos. A good many of them were the same couple, including a wedding photo. But then, two children started to appear in the photos.

The first was a blonde girl, who looked so similar to the mother that it was almost scary. The other was a red-haired girl, who had the father's eyes but otherwise barely resembled either parent.

It clicked properly now. The little blonde girl was Tex, which made the red-haired girl Carolina. The blonde woman who looked like Tex was the mother. And the father...

Well, this was the Director's house. So the man must be the Director.

Church groaned quietly, covering his face. And he'd thought his family was messed up. Tex was a cop, and her father and sister were some of the worst criminals around. Not to mention that now her ex-boyfriend was about to gun down her father.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Church debated turning tail and running right there and then. Instead, he focused on the other pictures.

There were a fair few of the family altogether, and some of the two girls playing. One had little Tex poking little Carolina with a foam bat shaped like a police baton. Cops and robbers? It made Church cringe. The two girls seemed friendly in some of the pictures, and when the whole family was together they looked happy.

But then Church noticed that the mother stopped appearing in the pictures, at about the point where Tex and Carolina looked like they'd entered school. Then the pictures stopped looking as happy. Any ones with the two girls looked like they had been forced to stand near each other, and Church noticed that Tex seemed to be in slightly more prominent view each time.

There was a picture of Tex at her high school graduation. Carolina didn't have a picture like that. She seemed to be less frequent in the pictures after the mother stopped appearing. The Director, the rare times he appeared after the mother stopped appearing altogether, always looked tired and worn, not the happy man he'd been in the other photos. His attention always seemed elsewhere, like he was taking these photos just because he had to, not out of any personal desire to document things.

This seemed familiar to Church. It took him a while to realise why. Mother vanishes. Father becomes distant. Ignores, maybe neglects the children, especially the younger one... maybe because he's constantly mooning over the mother. It was his and Eddie's past. With two different children. Hell, the Director... he even looked eerily like Church's father. Because there clearly wasn't enough screwed up feelings in all this.

And then... at the right side of the wall of the pictures... there were just pictures of Tex. Church knew it was Tex, and not the mother, because she had her hair cut shorter and wore a policewoman's outfit in many of the pictures. It took Church a few moments to realise these pictures were sometimes blurry. Like someone hadn't had the time to get the positioning right. And a few had leaves in the frames, like someone had taken them from the bushes.

Church felt revolted. He didn't know what was going on, but this wall of photographs... there was something creepy and depressing about it all, and it brought up a lot of bitter feelings about childhood that he thought he'd left behind.

"The coast is clear, Alpha."

"Eh?"

"The coast is clear. Move."

Church looked one last time at the wall of photos. Whatever was going on in those pictures... it wasn't good. The last set of pictures looked like they'd been taken by stalkers. That alone made Church want to shoot this guy, even if it wasn't for everything else.

All else fails, he could look at the Director and pretend he was Church's own father. The resemblance was close enough and it wouldn't be difficult to kill him a second time.

When Church slipped back into the hallway, there was no-one there. Church crept over to the door he'd originally been traveling towards. He looked upwards at one of the cameras and raised his eyebrow, nodding his head at the door.

"They're through there. There's one guard on the left of that door, opening it you will be in point-blank range. Shoot him immediately. The Director will be seventy-eight degrees to your right. He seems to be unarmed."

Church nodded, rather than risking speaking.

"...Good luck, Alpha."

_I hope I don't need it._

Church took a deep breath, opened the door and pointed his gun at the guard. Before the guard could even start to turn around, Church emptied his entire clip at the other guard.

He missed every time. There was an awkward moment, during which the bodyguard blinked and stared at him. Church cleared his throat.

"Uh. Fuck it." He smacked the guard over the head with the butt of the gun, knocking him unconscious. Not wanting to risk the guard waking up, he stomped on the guy's neck for good measure.

"Needlessly messy," Delta murmured.

"Shut up."

The Director was sitting at a nearby table. He hadn't moved, but his eyes were darting around the room, looking for an exit. There wasn't one. He seemed frozen to the desk. Church reloaded his gun, watching the man out of the corner of his eye as he did so. He thought there'd be a run for it, but the man didn't move.

Then Church pointed the gun at him, hoping he wouldn't miss this time. He walked closer, studying the man.

"...Wait a second," Church muttered, looking at the man.

"Eliminate him," Delta said.

Church didn't. He just looked at the man. He was wearing square glasses and a suit, like the man in the photos, and his haircut matched. But the face was different, and he didn't have the same eyes as the man in the photos. Had that not been the Director, or...

"Alpha—"

"I don't think this is—"

The 'Director' stared at Church, looking terrified. As he did, Delta suddenly made a muffled, choking sound.

"Eh? Delta?" Church pressed the headset closer to his ear. "Delta? What's going on?" He heard a crash, and more muffled noises. It sounded like someone had attacked Delta from behind. "Delta? Dee?"

Then silence. Church looked back at the man he was pointing the gun at.

"You're not the Director, are you?"

The man shook his head.

"You knew we were coming." Church's voice was flat as he said this. He didn't panic. He just knew they'd been fucked over big time.

The man nodded.

"Where's the real Director?"

The man didn't move. Church pressed the gun barrel to his forehead.

"Where's. The. Director?"

The man opened his mouth to reply—and his head exploded into a puff of red mist. Church jumped back, but wasn't able to avoid the splatter. Blood coated his front. He turned to see Meta in the doorway, the knifle pointed at the fake Director's body.

"Dammit, Meta! I was gonna get the Director's real location out of him!" Church yelled. Meta tilted his head, looking confused. "That was an imposter, you fuckwit!"

Meta stared at him in a manner that conveyed the message, 'say that again and die.'

"Alright, alright, whatever. Shit, we gotta get back to Delta, I think someone's attacked—"

"Delta's fine."

Church froze. That voice had issued out of his headset. It was Theta.

"Theta? What the fuck, you're not even supposed to be here! And where the fuck's Delta?"

"Chloroform. I... I chloroformed him. I'm... I'm... I'm really sorry. I didn't want to do it. But the Director was going to catch us, and he said if I gave us up..."

"You... oh shit, you..."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." Theta's voice wavered. He sounded like he was crying. "I had to protect Dee. I thought it would be okay."

"...You fucking idiot. You... it was you. It wasn't Gamma, was it?"

"I... I helped set up the ambush. I ordered the virus from 2.0 under Gamma's name and left the disc in Delta's computer on purpose so he would suspect Gamma instead, just in case something went wrong... but I didn't think that would get him shot! I... I thought..."

"And tonight, Theta? Tonight?"

"...I warned the Director. How do you think I found that address? He's gone. Out of state by now. You shot a fake. Fake bodyguards, too. Placed here just for this, so you wouldn't realise..."

"Son of a bitch... Gary had nothing to do with it? And... and you got Sigma killed, you—"

"I didn't mean for Sigma to get killed! I wouldn't! I... the ambush was meant to go smoother, Carolina wasn't meant to shoot any of us. It would have gone that way if Delta hadn't driven in. And when the guns started... well, I had to shoot, because everyone else was, but... but I would have been fine. I didn't know Sigma would run out and try to help... She was shooting at me too, do you think I meant for Sigma to run out and... I knew I'd be okay, but he... he ran out... And I didn't think Carolina would shoot us! The Director said... if I gave us up, we wouldn't be killed..."

"And you believed that? Theta, this isn't like stealing cookies from the cookie jar. It's not a 'slap on the wrist' thing! We have been shooting his guys. And he's been shooting ours! You are a fucking idiot, did you really think he was just gonna let us waltz off?!"

"But he promised—"

"He was lying! So, what's your plan, then? After chloroforming Delta?"

"I'm..." He heard Theta swallow, trying to choke away tears. "I'm going to take this van and drive, and we're going to hide. I don't... I don't care if I have to force Dee into giving this up. He's going to get killed if he stays in this business, and... and I can't let that happen."

Church was pissed. He was beyond furious. But...

"He's... he's protected me all my life. It's my turn now. Even if he'll hate me for it. You... you know what I mean, right?"

Church did know. He wasn't so naïve to think the Director would have ever let them go, but if he'd been desperate... maybe he would have done the same for Eddie. No, there was no maybe about it. He would have.

Meta was pacing and twitching. He was getting more agitated by the second. And then he roared angrily. Church tried to see what he was snarling at and heard a voice from just outside, distorted through a megaphone.

"Attention, assholes! Come out with your hands up! We have you surrounded!"

"That's your fault too, isn't it?" Church sighed.

"Sorry. Um, that was... that was kind of why I was talking to you over the mic, so you'd stay still long enough to be surrounded and all. But... but it's just the police. They won't hurt you."

"Really, Theta? Really?" Church mumbled, rubbing his forehead.

His brain ticked over all the possible ways he could escape, and subsequently realised there were no escape routes at all. For Meta, maybe. Meta was a giant puma of a man who could easily bulldoze his way through a few cops. Church wasn't. He was just some guy who got really out of his depth.

He didn't scream or swear as loud as he thought he would. He just kept rubbing his forehead.

_Shit. I'm sorry, Eddie. Guess I won't be back that soon, after all._

He was trapped. But Eddie was still free. He just needed to make sure Eddie could continue being free.

"Hey, asshole?"

"Yes?" Theta responded immediately.

"Do something for me, alright? Take Eddie with you when you run for it. Make sure he's fine, okay? Director wouldn't be after him, so taking him with won't hurt you and Delta. I don't want him running back to see me and getting himself involved, so... just tell him I was killed, alright? Just... just do that for me. Alright?"

"You didn't even have to ask. Eddie's my friend, do you think I would throw him to—"

"You just fucked us all over, I have fucking doubts, alright?"

"Don't worry. It'll be okay. I'll make sure Eddie's okay."

"Okay. Now fuck off."

"Alright. ...Bye, Church."

Church removed the headset and tossed it aside. Then he turned to Meta. "You're friends with Eddie as well, right? That's what he said. And you were all protective and shit when he got stabbed, so... if you get out of here, make sure Theta does what he said she would. Make sure Eddie's safe. Can you do that?"

Meta still looked nervous and twitchy about the cops. But he nodded.

"Cool. Escape out the back. I... I can't fight my way through that many." Church's gaze landed on a phone that was sitting on the Director's desk, next to the fake Director's body. "No use in us both getting caught, so get lost, alright? Also, if you see Tex... blonde hair, badass vibe... don't hurt her, alright?"

Meta stood still for a moment. Then he reached out and patted Church on the shoulder, the only friendly gesture he'd ever made towards him. Then he left the room.

Church picked up the phone and dialled Tex's number. He hoped she was outside. He needed to do one more thing. One last thing for his little brother.

* * *

Tex was, indeed, among the policemen outside.

She had still been going through all of the notes she had on Church. Trying to figure out where he could be or where he'd run off to. Her time on this had to be limited, he said he was quitting. That probably meant he was going to run like hell after dealing with her father.

There just wasn't enough information to go on. Fucking Omega, why couldn't he just tell her where the hideout was? The mention of thin walls wasn't enough to locate a house. Lots of houses had flimsy walls.

She'd been going through this at her desk in the police station when a call had come through. According to the person who called, there was a hostage situation going on in the richer part of town. Tex hadn't thought it was anything different than any other hostage situation.

She'd gone with the other cops to the house and they'd surrounded the place. Next to her, one of the others spoke into a megaphone.

"Attention, assholes! Come out with your hands up! We have you surrounded!"

Tex stared at the building for any sign of movement. She didn't see any. Around her, the cops had guns out. If they really did have a hostage in there, then negotiations would likely occur. She could be there for a long time.

But then her mobile rang. She'd forgotten to set it to silent. The cop holding the megaphone turned to her with the most pissed off expression she'd seen in a while.

"Seriously, Texas?" he muttered, switching the megaphone off momentarily. "Don't you dare answer that!"

Tex ignored him. She knew who it was, because only one person had called her recently. Her father never phoned, knowing Tex would hang up on him, Carolina obviously couldn't and although York had half-heartedly checked on her a couple of times in the last three months, he hadn't recently phoned her either.

It had to be Church. And the timing... it went so well with this hostage situation. Almost like he'd waited until...

She answered it.

"Are you inside the house?" she asked immediately.

"Yeah. You outside?"

"The fuck do you think? Of course I'm outside."

"Alright. I'm negotiating terms of surrender. Or whatever."

"About fucking time!"

"Texas, what are you—" the policeman next to her started.

"Shut up, I'm negotiating terms of surrender!"

"Why does he have your phone number?"

"This isn't the time!" Tex snapped before returning to the phone call. "You killed anyone?"

"Uh. ...Yeah."

"Shit. Then what terms are there to negotiate?"

"I've still got a gun. I will hurt whoever comes in after me. Come in here by yourself and bring me out alone. Okay? I wanna talk to you."

"How do I know you aren't just going to shoot me?"

"Because I wouldn't do that. I'm not that evil, alright? Just come in alone. I'm in the study, go in through the garage, enter the hallway, third room on your left."

"...I'll see what I can do. But that better not be a fucking trap."

Tex hung up. "Sir. He requests I go in and apprehend him alone."

"Are there hostages?"

"I don't know," Tex lied. They wouldn't let her go alone if there were no hostages at risk. "Sir, you know I have the best aim out of anyone here. I'll bring him out. Besides, he won't shoot me."

"How can you know that?!"

"He's kind of... um... a boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

"Just let me go in and talk him out."

* * *

Church stood there and waited, gun pointed at the doorway. He didn't think Tex would gun him down, but he couldn't be sure.

It was a few minutes before Tex appeared. She kept her gun pointed at Church from the first moment she entered the room. Church did the same. Tex didn't say anything for a few moments. She looked at him, his eyes occasionally flickering to the two other bodies in the room, that of the fake Director and his bodyguard.

"Uh. Hey," Church mumbled.

Tex didn't reply. She started walking slowly towards him, gun still raised. Face impassive.

"Tex? Whoa, Tex, come on. Don't get closer, I don't... I don't want to pull this trigger."

Tex just kept advancing. Church took a couple of steps backwards, only to bump into the desk of the fake Director. And still Tex kept advancing.

"Don't make me—"

Tex got within a couple of feet of him. And promptly swung her gun through the air and pistol whipped him in the face.

"Aaagh, fuck!" Church tried to shield himself, but Tex hit him again. And again. And again. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Tex! Tex, quit it! Stop it, Tex, you're embarrassing me! I'm supposed to be the criminal badass here, stop—aaargh, fucking goddammit!"

With a final whack, Tex knocked him to the floor and kicked the gun out of his hands. It had been a very one-sided fight. She pushed Church's gun away with her foot without dropping her gaze for a split second.

"Tex..." Church mumbled. He felt the side of his face before turning his head and spitting. A drizzle of blood sprayed out, dying the carpet. Church probably should have been terrified or upset, but there was nothing Tex could do to him now that would make the situation worse. Besides, it wasn't as bad as when he'd watched Wash spit out the blood from his torn, bloody gums.

"Another word, Church, and I'll say you tried to gun me down. Who will they believe, me or you with a bullet buried in your fucking face?"

"That... the same spiel you gonna give me about the whole 'Dad's a fucking master criminal' thing?" Tex raised an eyebrow at him. "I saw the pictures, they're in his bedroom. Might wanna check where you walk, you got a fucking stalker. S'creepy."

"I know it's creepy. Besides, can't pin shit on me. Me and him don't see eye-to-eye. Didn't even know he lived here."

"He doesn't. Not any more." Church wiped blood from his face before gesturing at the fake Director. "Decoy."

"Oh." Tex shrugged. "Don't give a fuck." She reached for the handcuffs hanging from her belt.

"Wait. Tex, I just want to ask you something. Didn't want to do it over the phone. ...Can the other cops hear us?"

Tex's eyes flickered to the windows. "No. They can't."

"Look, I give up. I'll tell them whatever information I can."

"Including who killed my sister?"

"Well, I suppose... but do you really want that? Raise a whole lot of tricky questions, wouldn't it? Like what was Carolina doing there, and how did you know I knew who did it?"

Tex responded to this by stepping forward again, her hand tightening on the gun. Church raised his hands again.

"Tex, quit being all... menacing and shit. I'm just trying to talk, I'm defenceless as balls. ...I don't even know the name of the guy who killed her, anyway. Codename, yeah, but... not the real name. Just... look, your choice whether you bring that up or not, I won't if you don't.

"This ain't about that, though. Have you mentioned my little brother to the police?"

Tex shook her head slightly. "More focused on you. What's your point?"

"Keep it that way. Don't mention Eddie at all. If they bring him up, just go along with what I say. Please."

"Why?"

"Because he doesn't deserve to be caught up in this, and I told you I don't want anyone I've pissed off going after him in revenge. It's easier for him this way."

Tex stared at him, before saying, "No. Why should I? You didn't give a shit about my little sibling. Why should I care what happens to yours?"

"I couldn't help what happened to Carolina, okay? Carolina had a gun. She was shooting at us. And the guy who did it had no other choice. But Eddie didn't do anything. He hasn't used a gun in his life."

Tex didn't reply. Her fingers drummed against the handcuffs at her belt.

"Can't trust you on anything, Church," she said quietly. "You're a murderer. A lying murderer who's fucking shielding some asshole from getting called out on Carolina."

"I told you, if you want me to tell the cops that I will, but it won't help and it'll just bring up problems. And lying... lying's not always bad. In Eddie's case, it's the best goddamn thing I can do for him."

"And the murdering?"

"No more murdering. I'm done with it. Promise."

Tex raised an eyebrow. She obviously didn't believe him. Church gestured at the gun she'd knocked away.

"Check the gun."

Tex glanced sideways at it, before walking over and picking it up. She briefly lowered her own gun, keeping one eye on him the whole time. She looked over Church's gun before checking the ammo inside.

The gun was empty. Church had emptied it right after calling Tex, and dumped the bullets behind the desk.

"Look, I'm fucking caught. I know that. And I don't want to shoot anyone any more anyway." Church nodded at the fake Director. "He's the last. I swear. Just... please don't get Eddie involved in this mess."

Tex looked at Church's gun for one more moment before placing it aside. She didn't pick up her own gun again, likely realising that she could subdue Church with fists alone if he tried to struggle, and approached him with handcuffs.

"Turn around, arms behind your back," she said. "Leonard L. Church, you are under arrest under suspicion of arson, smuggling and killing those guys on the floor there. As well as some other people. If I list them all, we'll be here forever."

"You think I don't know that?" Church grumbled, as Tex locked the handcuffs onto his wrists.

"Shut up, I'm talking. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you," Tex rattled off as she finished fastening the cuffs on. "Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"

"Obviously, I've heard them on every law enforcement program ever."

"Shut the fuck up. Move it."

Church didn't bother to struggle as he was pushed out of the room by Tex. His legs were suddenly very shaky, but he did his best not to collapse on the floor. It was over. He was finished. He'd done all he could, said what he could. It was over.

No more running or killing. Just a lifetime of prison. In a way, it was a relief.

But it sucked in every other way.

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Leonard L. Church**

**Date Of Interview: February 12, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 5:27 P.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Max Gain**

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

**Gain: I'd like to ask you about the night your father died. Will you answer my questions?**

**Church: What the fuck am I supposed to do besides that? Besides, I already said I was guilty.**

**Gain: The questions are still necessary to decide the exact charges. Are you going to answer?**

**Church: Yeah, whatever. Thought this part was never gonna come round. Details are gonna be fuzzy, though, it was ages ago.**

**Gain: I understand. Do you remember what led up to the death?**

**Church: Yeah. Killed him.**

**Gain: Describe the events leading up to it.**

**Church: I dunno. I think we were shouting about something... he was always shouting and shit. Might have been drinking. Smelt like it. Maybe that was just the kitchen. Anyway, he took a swing at me. Never did that before so I kinda panicked. Grabbed a knife. Stabbed him. Then I realised he'd tell the cops about that so I ended up cutting his throat out.**

**Gain: What about your brother? Eddie?**

**Church: Ah, right... yeah, he was there. Freaked out. He didn't like Dad much, though. Dad was always swearing at him and yelling about how he killed our mum. Er, he didn't. Not on purpose. It was a childbirth thing.**

**Gain: How did he react to the murder?**

**Church: Eddie? He cried a lot. Dumb kid.**

**Gain: And then what happened?**

**Church: We left. I figured we would go to another state and get new identities or something. But, well... turns out that dragging a six-year-old across a couple of states is hard work. And dumb kid wouldn't stop crying and asking why Dad was leaking ketchup and stuff. It was attracting too much attention.**

**Gain: What did you do?**

**Church: Stopped on the way. Some small town, tons of grass. Don't remember the name. There was a river not far from the town. Took Eddie there. Smashed him over the head with a rock. Tied more rocks to him. Chucked him in the river. Left. Came here.**

**Gain: How did you feel about doing that? Any remorse?**

**Church: He was slowing me down.**

**Gain: Yes. But that doesn't answer the question.**

**Church: Well... I'd have to be some kind of monster not to feel any remorse. I mean, he was my little brother. But these things happen. Sometimes you have to leave people behind. Even if it fucking sucks.**

**End of extract. See the full transcript for more details.**

* * *

Six months after Church had been charged, judged and locked up in Valhalla Penitentiary, Tex came to visit him. It took her several minutes of listening to the guard, Phil, rant about being a single parent and how long the hours were and how unappreciated he was, but she got in. When Church sat down across from her on the other side of that glass screen, Tex couldn't help but swear.

"Holy shit, what happened to your face?"

Church shrugged, while reaching up to touch the side of his face. It was a mass of purple and black bruising, and his eye was little more than a puffy slit. "Uh. It's nothing."

"Like hell it's nothing, who the fuck did that?"

"Uh. There were a lot of them. It's sort of a... six-month build-up." Church's eyes involuntarily flickered over to Phil,. Guards weren't supposed to hit inmates without reason, but Phil had mentioned being a single father, and what decent father wouldn't hate a child murderer?

"They, uh... they don't take too kindly to child killers in here," Church muttered, looking downwards. "But, well... guess it's karma or something gay like that. Anyway." Church gazed at her for a moment. He looked tired. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know. Laughing at your suffering, maybe?" The sight of Church like this wasn't hilarious at all, though. Tex had hoped for something cathartic about seeing Church behind bars. (Well, glass.) But she didn't feel anything. Same as when she'd beaten up Church six months ago.

"You don't look that giggly."

"Shut up. Besides, I don't giggle."

"Sure you don't." Church propped his chin on his hands, wincing when he pressed on some of the bruises. "Haven't seen you since... well, y'know."

"Yeah. That was intentional."

"...You didn't tell." He didn't have to specify more than that, and wouldn't have dared in such a public place anyway.

"I know."

"Thanks."

"Eh. People shouldn't have to be dragged down by jerkasses they just happen to be related to," Tex muttered. She thought of Carolina. She still blamed Church somewhat for it, and he was certainly a goddamn long way from forgiveness, but not as much as she once had, which was part of the reason why hitting the crap out of him hadn't helped all the anger. He hadn't pulled the trigger. And he hadn't dragged her into a life of crime to begin with. If her father had never tugged them around and played favourites, and pulled Carolina into his stupid little criminal organization, then she never would have been gunned down.

It was easier to blame the Director for it.

"It's, uh... it's good to see you," Church mumbled, looking away.

"Not mutual. Sappy jerk."

"What? 'Holy shit, what happened to your face' is the nicest sentence I've heard directed at me since I got locked up in this hellhole."

"That's just depressing."

"Yeah..." Church shrugged. "What isn't? Anyway... uh. What's going on with you?"

"I don't feel like I can complain that much, given your situation. Although I'm on the edge of getting fired right now..."

"What, seriously?"

"Is it a surprise?" Tex started counting off her infractions on her fingers. "I've been running suicidally into burning buildings... your fault, by the way... and dating murdering arsonists... also your fault... performing police brutality... also you... and I accidentally punched a guy that was doing graffiti in the face... which I'm gonna blame on you."

"Oh, come on. Also, I only set fire to one building! And that was one I lived in!"

"Still makes you an arsonist. Anyway, I still have a job, but... I'm pretty much this close to getting fired." Tex held her thumb and index finger an inch from each other. "Probably gonna need a new job. They have any guard positions here?"

"Probably. The warden's insane, so even if you're declared a shitty cop he probably won't care. Why would you want to work here, though?"

"Lot of reasons. Not that different from policework. Know a guy here—you know him? York?"

"Oh, that guy. Yeah, he's alright. Hasn't punched me. Erm, I mean—" Church's eyes flickered over to Phil again. "Not that guards hitting me happens at all, and... yeah, definitely not anyone in this room..."

"Yeah, that's the other point. After all the trouble of bringing you in, I'm gonna make sure you stay there, dammit."

"And that's the only reason you don't want me to die?" Church was grinning at her now. He still looked tired, but less so.

"Yeah. Definitely the only reason."

"You sure? Because technically you never actually dumped me—"

"You're dumped."

"Fuck."

* * *

Simmons stared through the glass screen that separated him from Grif's hospital room. The door was locked. Simmons wasn't allowed to go in and talk to him unless a policeman was present. When there were no police, the door was kept locked. The only people that went in were occasional nurses and doctors.

Simmons wanted to talk to him. Not that it mattered at the moment, since Grif was asleep. But he wanted to talk to Grif. To shout at him for how insane he was. Why did he have to run? Why did he have to crash his car? Why did he have to decide to take the blame? But Simmons couldn't say any of it, especially that last part.

Was it going to be this way forever? Them staring at each other through a glass screen? Unable to talk about any of it for fear of being overheard and making all the lies Grif had used to keep Simmons out of prison meaningless?

Simmons rested his forehead against the glass, despite his mind muttering that it was unsanitary to stick any part of your body on glass in a hospital. People had probably coughed on it or something.

Grif, you stupid cockbite.

He and Sister were taking shifts on keeping an eye on Grif, so she was currently at home. She wasn't taking the whole 'big-brother-in-a-car-accident-and-going-to-prison-for-murdering-her-ex-boyfriend' thing very well. She tried to stay peppy on the outside, but whenever she thought no-one was looking she looked depressed, and she'd somewhat let go of personal hygeine. When she wasn't at the hospital she stayed back in the apartment with her hands covering her face. This was a huge change from her usual social butterfly tendencies.

Simmons pressed his fingers against the glass as well. He pushed at the glass, wondering how solid it was.

_I could break the glass. I could get him out._

Trying to break Grif out of his little glass prison was a stupid idea. He was in hospital for trying to run off in the first place. But the thought kept coming back. Break him out. Take him and Sister to some country without an extradition policy. Stay there and live a happy, prison-free life.

"Hey."

Sister had turned up. She looked a mess. While normally she wore heavy and somewhat skanky make-up and kept her hair in perfect order... right now, she was dressed in crumpled clothes and had perpetual bed head.

"Oh. Hi."

Sister joined him at the window. She pressed her fingers against the glass as well.

"How hard would it be to break the glass?" she muttered.

"I don't know."

"Worth a try?"

A policeman showed up just before Sister could enact that doomed-to-end-in-disaster plan. That was probably for the best.

* * *

Everything ached. Car accidents did that, Grif supposed.

He was pretty beat up from it. He'd been concussed, his left arm had pretty much shattered and even the parts that weren't broken were still pretty bruised. Plus, he was missing some of his back teeth. His tongue kept poking at the gaps instinctively. Felt weird.

Still. At least his injuries would heal, for the most part. Not like the other guy. Grif had asked what happened to the blond guy in the pick-up truck. The doctor had muttered something about serious brain damage and the kid being stuck in a coma. Then he'd changed the subject to Grif's own injuries and refused to say anything else.

Grif hoped the kid (never caught the name) was alright. And not just because if he kicked the bucket Grif would be charged with vehicular manslaughter on top of everything else. He didn't want to kill anyone. ...Well, he didn't want to kill anyone who hadn't hospitalized his sister.

He gazed at the lights. Hospitals were boring. He wondered if he could get the next policeman who showed up to get him some M&Ms. Probably not.

He tried waving his non-broken arm at one of the people outside the room but it hurt too much. He'd have to communicate that he wanted M&Ms with his eyes.

It was better to focus on this completely uninteresting and meaningless situation, rather than thinking about what's going to happen after he gets those M&Ms. The only way he's going to be able to deal with any of this... going to jail, possibly murdering some high schooler, leaving Sister behind where he wouldn't be able to protect her anymore... is if he focuses on everything that isn't of any importance.

Grif continues trying to communicate that he wants M&Ms... the peanut kind, specifically... to a doctor passing by. All it achieves is getting the doctor to enter his room and ask if he's having some kind of seizure.

He supposed he could have asked the doctor to get him some M&Ms when he came in, but if he solved the M&M issue too soon he'd have nothing else to distract him.

* * *

When Simmons got back to the apartment, he found Sister sitting on the couch. She was drinking from a bottle of some kind of green alcohol and staring at the television. Which wasn't turned on.

"Hey."

"Simmons?" Sister gave him a painfully fake smile before patting the sofa next to her. "Come over here. Drink."

"Yeah, I'm not doing that. Last time was awkward."

Sister rolled her eyes. "I promise they'll be no groping. Like I'd be in the mood to try that again. The only thing you have to suck face with is the Green Fairy."

"What? Oh, whatever, I'm still not drinking."

"Please?"

"Look, I promised Grif I wouldn't."

"So what? Dex isn't here."

Sister had said these words before. Usually when smoking something weird or sneaking a guy into her room. When she said it those times, however, it was with the tone of a teenage girl doing something their parents wouldn't like. Coy and cheeky. This time, it sounded like she was on the edge of tears. It was the tone that made Simmons sigh and sit down on the sofa.

"Fine. Pass it over."

Sister gave him the bottle. Simmons took a swig of the contents and immediately choked and barely stopped himself from spitting it out.

"Oh god, what is that?"

"I told you. Green Fairy. Absinthe."

Simmons wrinkled his nose as he tried to get the taste out of his mouth. However, after a few moments, he decided the taste could be worse and took another sip. This time, he only choked a little. And by the third sip, the taste was bearable. Though it would never reach being pleasant.

But it wasn't like getting drunk normally. There was no talking or eventual drunk giggling or other silliness. There was no groping, either, although for that Simmons was thankful. They both just stared ahead, only moving to pass the bottle back and forth.

Once the bottle was nearly empty, Simmons muttered, "This isn't doing anything."

"Yeah." Sister leaned to the left, reached under the couch cushion and rifled around. "I hid another bottle under here."

"No, I... uh..." Simmons blinked a few times. Things were kinda blurry. The drink was really strong... It was the kind of drink where you didn't even have to actually drink it. You just had to rub it on your hips and let it eat through to your liver. But pouring alcohol on yourself always got everything sticky.

"I think I've got it. ...No, wait. That's something... plastic-like." Sister pulled something out from under the couch cushion. It was a packet of Oreos that Grif had left there for midnight snacking.

"I told him to stop hiding cookies under the couch. Makes it smell crumbly. You know?" Simmons said, fumbling over his words somewhat. "It's, uh... Sister?"

Sister had crumpled up the packet of Oreos. Tears had started dripping down her face.

"I don't want Dex to go to prison! Why'd you have to tell him where that... that guy was..." Sister scrubbed at her eyes before sticking her hand back under the sofa cushion. "Why'd you have to do that? S'your fault."

"...Yeah. Maybe."

Sister blinked furiously, tears still trickling out, before she finally located another bottle of green alcohol and took a gulp of it. After a few more minutes, she shook her head.

"Sorry. Shouldn't blame you. S'my fault. Shouldn't have... have taken those stupidpills and hung out with creepy guys wearing stupid sunglasses."

"Yeah. That woulda helped." Simmons took the bottle off Sister and took another drink. The room was spinning slightly at this point. "We just gotta... uh. Something. Just gotta make sure of things. Like... stuff. ...I think I'm drunk."

"Yeah. This stuff does that. It's, like, the number one thing for when you want to be completely wasted."

"Look, I know it's... it's probably scary having your big brother not there for the first time ever, and—"

"It's not scary! I'm not scared at the fact that he's not here! I'm scared at the fact that he's gonna be... over there." Sister curled up on her end of the sofa. "They're gonna... gonna corner him in the showers and make him preggers."

"Yeahhh. That's not a good way to have a kid," Simmons said, nodding.

"I mean, I'll do fine. There's this... this thing that runs in the family. Grif-kids are really sturdy. Like, when I was younger, me and Dex went skating on this ice pool... and I fell through and got stuck there for three hours. Some stuff happened. It was crazy. But I lived. And got preggers, but... well... Can't win everything."

"...What."

"But Grif can't get an abortion in prison. Not even coat-hanger style..."

Simmons took a quick gulp of drink before passing it back to Sister. "Okay, so Grifs... Griflings... Griffers... whatever the plural is... are ridiculously tough and fertile. He's... I'm sure Grif'll... uh..."

Simmons was trying to convince himself out loud that Grif would be fine. He couldn't manage it, and not just because he couldn't form coherent sentences.

"I don't want Grif to be a preggers prison bitch..." Sister covered her face again. Her shoulders were shaking. Simmons sighed and wrapped an arm around her.

"It'll... it'll be alright. Somehow."

"I still wanna... wanna try and smash open the glass. Bust him out. Run off to Spain. And then we would all become... florists. Because no-one ever expects florists to be murderers. Except in that movie where there was a florist who was a murderer. But that totally wasn't real life. I think."

"That's a stupid idea," Simmons said. Sister passed the bottle to him again. "If... if we did that... then they would just arrest us and we'd also end up prison bitches."

"Preggers prison bitches," Sister mumbled.

A few minutes later, she fell asleep on the sofa. Simmons was left sitting there and watching the room twirl around like a ferris wheel. After a while, he climbed rather unsteadily to his feet. Although it would have been closer to the truth to say he fell out of his chair. He fumbled around the room for a while before locating where the blankets were kept. He found one and returned to the couch, tossing the blanket over Sister. Then he stumbled out the door.

As it turns out, a bottle of absinthe and paint thinner does things to a man's judgment. In Simmons' case, it made him want to run off without telling anyone and basically disappear for two days.

* * *

"Simmons is gone," Sister told Grif the next day, when she went to visit him in hospital.

"Say what?"

"Last night we were drinking absinthe... and then I passed out because that stuff is bitchin'... and then I woke up and he wasn't anywhere. And he didn't take his phone with him."

"Motherfucker. He ran off! I told him to look after you, and the first thing he does is let you drink absinthe and then run off? Little bitch," Grif muttered.

"Well, I'd already drunk, like, a ton of it. I kinda guilted him into drinking with me."

"And I told him not to do that. Fuck, I don't care, only reason I didn't like that was because he's all..." Grif made groping motions with his hands. "...when he's drunk. I guess better drinking with him than drinking with fuckers wearing stupid sunglasses handing out rainbow pills."

Why was he so surprised? So Simmons ran off... He probably didn't want to stick around being all responsible and shit. Big fucking surprise. Probably just sticking around long enough to bone both him and Sister. Fucking whorebag.

Grif tried to suppress those bitter thoughts and returned his attention to the packet of M&Ms he'd managed to convince the doctor to get him.

"M&M?" Grif held out the packet to Sister. Truth be told, for once in his life he wasn't really that hungry. He just wanted something to do. Hospitals were boring. Maybe prison wouldn't be so bad in comparison.

Sister shrugged and took a couple of M&Ms. "Do you think they'll have M&Ms in prison?"

"Probably not." Okay, prison would be worse. If only for the lack of delicious snacks.

A tapping sound came from the doorway into Grif's hospital room. A doctor was standing there. A tall woman with a very stern face.

"Dexter Grif, is it?" she said. Her voice was very cold.

"Yeah. What do you want?"

"I'm Doctor Filss. I'm just here to give you an update on the young man you drove into." Grif's throat clenched a little. The face the woman was making did not bode well.

"Uh. Yeah. Hit me."

"He's woken up from his coma, so you will not be charged with vehicular manslaughter. After some arguments, the family decided not to press charges for the damage you did. Since you're going to prison anyway, they decided there was little point in drawing it out."

"Oh. So, he's fine?"

"I didn't say that. I just said there would be no charges pressed," Dr. Filss said coolly. "And that's all the detail I'm allowed to give you. This is the last you'll hear of the accident unless complications arise."

"Okay..." At least Grif hadn't killed anyone in that crash. Once Dr. Filss was gone, he let out a relieved sigh. "Alright. I still got some chance at parole. In, like... twenty years."

"Twenty years..." Sister turned away from him and gazed out the glass screen at the rest of the hospital. "You'll be so old."

"I won't be that old! I'll just be... uh... forty-five. Jesus, that is old. Okay, I take it back." Grif rubbed his forehead. Prison was sounding worse by the minute. "Well, uh... guess I'll... uh... Sister?"

Sister's shoulders were shaking and she wouldn't look at Grif.

"Sis?"

"Just... just gimme a minute, alright?" she sniffed. "This sucks..."

Grif sighed and held out his good arm. "Over here. Come on."

Sister wiped at her eyes before turning around and walking back to him. When she got close enough, Grif pulled her into a hug. Neither said anything. It was just a quiet moment of cuddling, something that the siblings hadn't done enough in their lives.

"I know you think you don't need looking after..." Grif started.

"That's because I don't," Sister mumbled.

"Just... stay away from any clubs that have pills being passed around like candy. And don't embarrass the family. If I find naked pictures of you on the internet again... well, I guess I wouldn't have access to the internet, but..."

"I'll be fine, Dex." Sister said. "And no more clubs. No more druggy ones, anyway. What about the ones with all the neon rings?"

"I dunno. Those neon rings are lame."

"What about those clubs with all the hookers? Brothels?"

"No. Never."

"What about lesbian bars?"

"That's fine. They can't get you pregnant."

"What about lesbian bars with neon rings?"

* * *

Simmons had few memories of what he did after he ran off. He definitely got into a taxi at one point, told the driver to take him to Las Vegas despite the fact that it was states away, and then after about half an hour declared that he no longer wanted to go, opened the door and jumped out despite the fact that the car had still been moving.

Besides that, he recalled little. He had no idea how he had ended up tangled in someone's hammock. But that's where he woke up. With a headache that felt like tiny little dwarves were mining deep into his head for scientific knowledge.

After borrowing aspirin from whoever's backyard he was in (they were remarkably nonchalant about finding a man hungover and tangled up in their hammock) he started walking around with no real purpose.

He hadn't been thinking that clearly, partly from the hangover and partly because he had no direction to go in. For some reason, it seemed like a good idea to drink the half-bottle of absinthe he still had in his bag.

That stuff was so potent... and it obliterated another few hours of memories.

That time, Simmons woke up in a broom closet of a hotel. Apparently he had tried to book a room but hadn't been able to afford it, and they'd let him stay in the broom closet. Rather nice of them, really. Why were these people so nonchalant to him stumbling in while wasted?

Well, he was out of alcohol now. Which meant he was forced to think about what he was actually doing.

He settled against the wall of the broom closet and tried to ignore the hangover. He didn't even like alcohol. He really had no idea why he kept drinking it and waking up in weird places. But taking a break from thinking about Grif had been... much better than he liked to admit. Thinking about Grif hurt right now.

He knew Grif wanted him to take care of Sister. And he could understand why. But... he wasn't sure if he was up to it. He'd done a terrible job in the few chances he'd had in the past. What with letting her sneak out repeatedly and once drunkenly getting to third base with her.

But it wasn't just that. There was another reason that thinking about Grif was making his chest sting. One that had nothing to do with Sister.

It was only on the train back to the city (Simmons had gotten several cities away while drunk) that Simmons really figured out why. It was simple. It was just the realisation that Grif wasn't going to be there anymore. And the stronger realisation that Simmons needed him there.

Sister was great and all... and by this point she was practically a sister to him as well, even if it was a sister that made him have creepy feelings in his pants while drunk. But Grif... Grif was just such a huge essential part of his life that Simmons had no clue what to do without him.

He'd never really reflected on their little routines before. The days that kind of blended together. Waking up, breakfast, arguing about whatever came to mind. Never vicious arguments. Those were few and far in between. The evening was just watching whatever movies were on. Often they were movies that Grif loved, but Simmons complained about due to the gratuitous violence and nudity. They would argue more. Eventually they would fall asleep on the couch. And the next day, the process would repeat.

It was mundane and uninteresting. But Simmons didn't want to lose it.

Simmons tapped the taxi driver on the shoulder. "I changed my mind. Take me to the police station."

Half an hour later, the taxi dropped him off in front of the police station. The station he and Sister had been interrogated at when Grif ran off. He walked in and asked to speak to Max Gain. That it was very important.

After a few minutes of waiting, Max Gain walked out to meet him.

"Dick Simmons, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"You said it was urgent."

"Yes. It is."

There was no way he could talk the police into letting Grif off the hook. There was too much evidence against him.

Simmons took a deep breath before continuing. "I did it. I helped Grif murder that guy. I admit it." He held out his wrists, ready to receive the handcuffs if they found it necessary. "Arrest me."

He couldn't let Grif go to prison. Not alone. If he couldn't get Grif out... he'd just have to go in with him.

* * *

When Max Gain walked into Grif's hospital room and told both him and Sister that Simmons had confessed to the crime, one could have heard a pin drop. It was just pure silence.

Sister went pale and sat down extremely quickly. Grif just stared at Max Gain. After a full minute of silence, he was the first to break it with four words.

"Son of a bitch!"

He decided then and there that he was going to strangle Simmons when they met again. After all the shit, all the lying, all the promises about Sister... that was it? Simmons just spilled the truth, just like that?

Son of a bitch.

Strangling, or at least shouting a lot, was what Grif planned. But he didn't see Simmons for weeks. Not until he was out of the hospital. Once he was released, Grif was taken to a tiny jail, where he'd be stuck until after the trial and sentencing.

When Grif saw Simmons again, it was in the cafeteria. There were just a couple of scattered people eating in there. One of them was Simmons, sitting there and pushing food around on his plate. When he looked up and saw Grif, he immediately pushed aside his food and got to his feet.

"Grif! How's... how's your arm?"

Grif's plan had been to strangle or shout at Simmons. Instead... he hugged Simmons tightly and started crying like a baby.

"You... fucking... idiot..." Grif forced out between sobs. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Simmons patted him on the back. "Just figured that you'd need the company more than Sister..."

"Idiot. Idiot..." Grif buried his face in Simmons' shoulder. "You're supposed to be out there. I told you to take care of Sister. I thought for sure that you'd, like... marry her or some shit. Since I said it was okay and all."

"But if I did that, then some criminal jerk would claim your mushy brown butt." Simmons grinned at him. "Like I'm gonna let that happen. You're my prison bitch."

Grif heard the unsaid 'I love you' in that sentence.

"Oh, like hell I'm your bitch. If anything, you're my bitch," Grif said, grinning back even though tears streaked his face. And hoped that Simmons understood the 'I love you, too' in that sentence.

Simmons' smile widening after that sentence said that he did.

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Dick Simmons**

**Date Of Interview: August 21, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 11:20 A.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Max Gain**

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

**Gain: The last formal interrogation we had... before you were charged... do you remember what you told me?**

**Simmons: Er. Not really. I think that absinthe blasted away most of my memories of that.**

**Gain: You told me that you had no knowledge of the murder.**

**Simmons: Oh, right. That was a lie.**

**Gain: Obviously. Why didn't you confess then?**

**Simmons: Don't know. Maybe it's because it's easier to plan on fleeing to a country with no extradition policy if you haven't confessed to murder and gotten locked up?**

**Gain: I see. Is that the only reason?**

**Simmons: Well, yeah. Why would I want to go to prison?**

**Gain: I doubt anyone would willingly go to prison. But you confessed after Dexter Grif took the fall for both of you.**

**Simmons: Yeah. I guess that was kind of dumb.**

**Gain: Then why did you do it?**

**Simmons: I don't know. I can't think that well around Grif. His stupidity is catchy.**

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Dexter Grif**

**Date Of Interview: August 22, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 11:45 A.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Max Gain**

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

**Grif: Of course I lied about Simmons. He wasn't even supposed to be helping me. He just did because he thought I'd fuck up if I tried on my own. And I guess he was right... I swear, if I ever get out I am keeping my wallet on one of those chain things so I don't drop it at the scene of any more crimes. Not that I'm gonna go kill more people if I get out.**

**Gain: I should hope not. But everything you say is going down in the transcript.**

**Grif: Aw, fuck. I'm not gonna kill anyone!**

**Gain: Of course not.**

* * *

A few weeks later, they were taken to Valhalla Penitentiary.

They got prodded along the corridors by some blonde woman, past the rows upon rows of cells. Grif saw glimpses of other inmates. Many of them tough-looking guys. All wearing orange. Well, Grif was okay with that. Most of his clothes were orange, anyway. Although they probably wouldn't let him wear Hawaiian shirts in here.

He glanced sideways at Simmons. The further they walked, and the more inmates they saw, the paler Simmons got. After a while he decided to just stare at the ground as they were pushed along.

"These are your cells," the woman said bluntly, pointing at two empty cells. "Originally, one of you guys were going to be in this one while the other was stuck somewhere else, but then the guy in the cell next to it got shivved and died because the doctor is incompetent. Lights off in an hour. And if you make any trouble or noise then you will be punished."

She left. Grif stared into his cell. Of course he'd get the one that used to belong to a dead guy.

"Shit," Simmons muttered, looking into his own cell.

"I can't believe you voluntarily went for this," Grif said.

Late that night, Grif couldn't sleep. Instead, he leaned against the bars and stared out into the pitch darkness of the corridor. Occasionally, he saw flashes of light from the torches that the guards held. And sometimes he'd hear noises. Whispers. Little clunks. Other inmates moving around.

It was creepy. And Grif was stuck listening to it. He would be stuck for the next twenty years. If not for his entire life.

He heard movement in the cell next to his. Simmons was awake as well.

"Can't sleep?" Grif whispered.

"No. You?"

"Not at all."

"For you, that's a fucking miracle. Lazy fatass," Simmons murmured.

"Fuck off."

But Simmons didn't. Instead, he stuck his hand out through the bars, reaching for Grif's cell. Grif stretched his own hand out and they grasped hands, twisting their fingers together. They stayed quiet, just listening to the sounds of the prison and staring into the darkness. But just holding hands made it feel less scary.

Prison would suck. It would suck big time.

But it could be worse. At least Simmons was there.

* * *

Crunchbite was furious. Tucker didn't understand a word he was saying, as usual, but he didn't need to understand the exact details of what Crunchbite was yelling to know that he was really, really pissed. At both CT and Tucker.

He was currently waving his hands at Tucker as he yelled. He was half-expecting Crunchbite to punch him in the face.

"Yelling isn't doing shit, Crunchbite! We gotta think of how to get enough money. You don't have any secret savings or anything, do you?"

Another tirade of blarging. Crunchbite shook his head a couple of times during it, so Tucker assumed that was a no.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit. How are we supposed to come up with 50,000 bucks in two weeks?"

"Blargh!"

"I mean, I don't really have any big cons I can pull off... and I don't have that much cash from conning. Maybe five thousand of what I cheated C.T out of? Shit." Tucker started walking around in circles. "Okay, conning won't work. Maybe if I rob a bank. But I don't know how to rob a bank! What if I get caught? Okay, okay, uh..."

Crunchbite seemed to be calming down a bit. Or at least wasn't blarging at the top of his lungs anymore. But now Tucker was panicking. He just couldn't think of any way to get 50,000 dollars so quickly.

"Shit, can't think of anything... there's gotta be something! There has to be! If there isn't, then C.T is gonna kill Junior! Just because I was a greedy bastard! Fuckberries!"

Crunchbite was rubbing his forehead now, frowning.

"He's gonna die!" Tucker's voice was getting more high-pitched and frantic as he went along. "C.T's a stone-cold asshole, and he's got that whole connections thing going, probably has bodyguards, he'll probably shoot Junior the instant that I try to get him back... shit! Why's this happening? Why's it—"

Crunchbite slapped him across the face. Tucker blinked a couple of times before continuing.

"You're right, panicking isn't doing shit. What'll we do, then?"

Crunchbite pointed at the phone.

"Phone C.T? Like that would help."

"Blarg." Crunchbite shook his head.

"Police? But C.T said if we even try it, then..."

"Blarg blarg blarg. Honk."

"Okay, can you just learn English already?!"

Crunchbite rolled his eyes before walking off into the kitchen. He came back with a notepad a few seconds later. He scribbled something down and held the notepad in Tucker's face.

**Call Smith.**

"Okay, first of all... how come you can write in English but can't talk in English?"

**That's not important right now.**

"Whatever. But what good will that do? Smith is one of C.T's bitches. We call him, he'll just rat us out to C.T."

**No. Our community values our young. He will understand that C.T has crossed a line.**

"You really think he'll go along with this?"

**Yes. He will go along with anything if he's offered old technology. He likes those old computers from the seventies and that's more affordable than paying C.T's debt.**

"Alright. Can't think of anything better..."

* * *

"I still don't like this."

"Quiet, Jones."

"My name isn't Jones!" Joannes scowled and crossed his arms. "Couldn't we just have, I dunno... cut off one of his hands or something?"

"So, mutilation is fine but borrowing a relative isn't?" C.T questioned. She was watching Junior toddle around the living room. She hadn't let him out of her sight since they kidnapped him. Junior didn't seem concerned with being in a strange place with strange people. All he'd done so far was chew on furniture and babble happily.

"It's not so much the kidnapping... it's the stuff that comes after. How's Tucker gonna come up with that cash?"

"That's his problem."

"So, that's it, huh? Just like that. Suddenly we're kidnappers."

"Yup."

"And, if all goes how you think it's gonna go, we'll be killing kids as well. Don't you know what they do to kid killers in prison? It's almost as bad as what they do to pedophiles. There's like... an acceptable criminal line in there. There's run-of-the-mill criminals like con-artists and petty thieves... the kind of criminal we're supposed to be, by the way... then there's the worse ones, like kidnapping, rape and murder. But you involve kids in any of that and you've crossed that line."

"I don't remember asking you to shoot the kid."

"Was this that mohawk guy's idea?"

C.T picked up Junior to stop him from chewing on the table. Junior squirmed happily, making a little blarging noise as he did so. "It was a collaboration. Does it matter?"

"So, he's dealing with the... erm... shooting?"

"No. He had something to take care of. He won't be back before then." C.T's boyfriend dealt with an entirely different part of the criminal underworld, and spent most of his time elsewhere in the country. He was more at ease with guns, but C.T was competent enough. She could easily handle this without him.

"Jesus." Joannes shook his head. "You know... you can really be a stone-cold bitch sometimes, Connie."

"Call me that again and the kid won't be the only one with a bullet in his head," C.T muttered.

Joannes shrugged and left the room. C.T bounced Junior up and down for a few moments.

"So, guess I'm stuck with you for two weeks." C.T sniffed and wrinkled her nose. "Oh, great. Diaper change? You're so tiny, how do you manage to poop so much? Like you traded asses with a giant horse..."

Junior's only response to this was 'honk.'

* * *

The room was filled with nothing but 'blargh' and 'honk.'

"Guys, can you stop yelling? You're gonna make the neighbours come up here and shout at us. And that's not really gonna help things," Tucker yelled over Crunchbite and Smith. "And Smith, put down the dart gun. Why the fuck do you have a dart gun?"

"Blargh?" Smith frowned, holding his dart gun tightly like Tucker was going to try and take it off him.

"At least put it down!"

"Blargh..."

Smith stared at him with those creepy yellow eyes of his. Tucker absently wondered if Smith was a weird scientific two-dad beaker babies like Junior, and if that was what caused the eyes, the sharp teeth and the unnatural hair colours.

"Okay, so... C.T is being a douchebag and he kidnapped my kid."

"Blargh?" Smith questioned.

"Sure, whatever you said. If it's about paying you to help me, then I swear I'll find some old computers off Ebay or something."

"Blargh."

"So, you still got C.T's confidence and all that?"

Smith shrugged and waved his hand in a way that suggested he meant to say 'sort of.'

"Any chance you could just walk in, grab Junior and leave?"

Another shrug.

"Can't you just nod or shake your head? Something besides shrugging and blarging?"

"Honk?"

"Uh... how would C.T react if you showed up at his house out of nowhere?"

"Honk blarg, blarg."

"Urgh, this language barrier is killing me. Learn English, dammit, it aren't that hard!"

Crunchbite scribbled on his notepad and handed it to Tucker.

**He says that C.T has never liked people showing up unannounced. Depending on who it was, it often earned a punch in the face. Smith could probably get away with just a glare. He also called you a shisno.**

"Well, ignoring the last part, that's something. Can't you think of anything besides 'send Smith in and hope for the best?'"

**Don't ask me. I'm not a criminal. I don't know how this works.**

"Yeah, but you're smart, aren't you? You're, like, a scientist or some shit."

**That is a completely different area.**

"Okay, I guess the Smith thing is the best bet. Smith goes in, finds Junior and leaves. And then we call the cops and get C.T's ass arrested for endangering my kid. I guess that sounds easy. If Smith can't get Junior, then... we think of something else. Though all I can think of is going in and pointing a gun at him until he gives Junior back. Is that why you brought a dart gun?"

"Honk..."

"What good is a damn dart gun gonna do?"

* * *

Two days after she'd kidnapped the kid, C.T's doorbell rung.

C.T rolled her eyes. People just kept ringing the doorbell. She supposed it tended to happen when she temporarily closed her bar. Anyone who'd normally visit her there for jobs decided that it'd be fine if they just looked her up and came to her house to ask.

She glanced down at her clothes and scowled. At the moment, she was wearing casual and slightly stained clothes that didn't hide the fact that she had boobs. All her clothes that covered any obvious female assets were suits or similar clothing. The kind of clothing that it was a terrible idea to wear around toddlers.

Speaking of which, Junior was finally asleep after toddling around the house for hours. C.T had moved everything she could to higher shelves, since he kept grabbing everything he could get his chubby little hands on and shoving it in his mouth.

The last two days was a fantastic reminder of why she had never decided to pop out a few kids.

Leaving Junior in his makeshift cot, which she was keeping in her bedroom, she walked up to the front door and stared through the peephole. She saw Smith staring back at her.

"Blargh?" he said, his voice muffled by the door.

Well, Smith already knew that she was a girl. No harm answering the door. She opened it.

"Why won't people stop pestering me... What do you want, Smith? I've got stuff to do." Like enjoy the few moments I have before the hyperactive toddler wakes up.

"Blarg blarg. Blarg?"

"I don't have any work for you, alright? Is that all you wanted?"

Smith blinked slowly a couple of times before asking, "Honk honk? Blarg?"

"You... you came all this way and annoyed me so you could use the bathroom?"

"Honk." Smith nodded cheerfully.

"...Alright. Come in. But be quick. You know where the bathroom is, right?"

"Blarg."

As C.T followed Smith to where the bathroom is, she heard a faint, high-pitched blarg coming from her room. Dammit. The little sharp-toothed bastard was awake. She saw Smith twitch and look in that direction.

"I'm babysitting," C.T said quickly.

"Blargh."

C.T watched Smith go into the bathroom and then waited outside. The kid could wait a little longer. And she didn't want people wandering around her house like cockroaches. She'd rather know where they all were. The last time she'd let Smith loose in her house he'd started fiddling with all the technology he could get his hands on.

* * *

Tucker and Crunchbite weren't far from C.T's house. They parked the car in an alleyway not far from the house, where they could get a decent view of the front door. Tucker sat in the passenger seat, while Crunchbite tersely gripped the steering wheel. They saw the door open, though they couldn't see CT, and they saw Smith walk in.

A couple of minutes later, Crunchbite's phone bleeped. Smith had sent him a text message. Which consisted entirely of blargs.

"Translation?"

Crunchbite scribbled on his notepad. **Smith is in the bathroom. C.T is following him around. He says that it sounds like Junior is in the bedroom. And that he knows from past experience that there's a window in there that you could climb in. He'll keep C.T distracted for as long as possible.**

"How long's that?"

**No idea. What are you waiting for? It's on the left side of the house.**

"Alright."

Tucker was about to climb out of the car when he saw that Smith had left his dart gun on the backseat. Which made Tucker extremely nervous, because he was pretty sure the safety wasn't on. But if C.T caught him at it, he'd need a weapon. Tucker grabbed it and carried it with him towards the house, grateful that the neighbourhood was deserted.

Tucker crept around the house. It was a small place, crammed into a really bad neighbourhood. If he was too noisy, C.T would hear him regardless of where she was in the house.

He peered through the windows. The second room he peered into was the right one. He saw a baby cot. He saw Junior sticking his head out of it, looking around the room with interest. A warm rush of relief went through his stomach. Junior was safe. For the moment.

As Tucker tried to pry open the window from the outside, Junior spotted him and started blarging loudly and cheerfully.

"Shut up, Junior," Tucker whispered. "You're gonna get shot if you keep that up."

As he managed to push the window open he heard the doorbell ring. And distantly heard a female voice grumble about people showing up. Tucker heard footsteps pass the bedroom. He had more time. He nudged the window open enough to fit through and hoisted himself in.

Junior was still smiling happily at him and blarging. Tucker placed the dart gun down on the floor before creeping towards Junior, trying his best to be quiet. As he got closer he heard the front door swing open and voices. He ignored them. They weren't important.

"Blarrrrrrgh! Blargh!"

Tucker picked Junior up and hugged him tightly to his chest. "Shush. Shush, Junior. Daddy's got you. Now we gonna get outta here," he whispered.

He was halfway back to the window when the door opened. He barely had time to turn around before he heard a gunshot go off, and a bullet went whizzing past his ear.

"JESUS, C.T!" Tucker screamed. He crouched near the window, trying to keep Junior shielded. But despite how serious the situation was, he ended up tilting his head and staring at C.T. He had immediately noticed that something was different. "Hey... you have boobs."

C.T scowled at him, her handgun still pointed at him. When she spoke, she used a completely different voice from her usual. A female voice that Tucker had only heard during that con six months ago when they'd both been crossdressing. Only... she hadn't been crossdressing at all.

"I guess that jig is up, huh? But you got more to worry about," she muttered.

"Holy shit, you're a chick. I shoulda known. Only a chick could cause me this many headaches," Tucker grumbled, hugging Junior closer. Junior had been startled by the loud noise of the gunshot and was now crying.

"I dunno about that, Tucker," she snapped. "You've caused me a load of headaches lately. By your logic, that means you've spontaneously grown female equipment. Or had it all along. That would explain the fact that you're apparently the 'mother' of that kid."

"I'm the father! Being the 'mother' sounds fruity—" C.T unloaded another shot. It shattered the window behind him. "C.T, stop it! Let me put my kid somewhere safe, at least!"

Two people appeared in the doorway, just behind C.T. One was Smith. The other was Joannes, who must have been the person at the door.

"Aw shit," Joannes muttered when he saw what was happening. He immediately took a gun out of his jacket and pointed it at Tucker as well, though he did so with a resigned expression on his face.

Smith didn't say anything, he just backed away slowly until he was out of sight.

"Jones, if you're not going to help then go and wait in the kitchen or something. I'm gonna need help burying these two," C.T said.

"C.T, really... can't we just let them go?"

"They broke into my house!"

"Then let's just kill Tucker," Joannes suggested.

"Uh, dude, I'm right here," Tucker grumbled.

"Shouldn't we, you know... reduce the amount of bodies we're going to end up with? Instead of making a huge pile of them?"

"Jones. Go wait in the kitchen."

As this argument was going on, C.T's attention was drawn away from Tucker. Although the gun remained pointed at him. Tucker glanced downwards at the dart gun. If he could just reach that...

"I'm just saying don't make this worse than it is. That's why you're not one of the massive big-time bosses like that Director guy. Because you overreact when stuff goes wrong and make a pile of bodies when you really don't have to."

"I do not! That wasn't me, that was—HEY!"

Tucker lunged for the dart gun. C.T squeezed the trigger again.

Bang.

This time, she didn't miss. Tucker felt something tear into his back. But he got hold of the gun and pointed it at C.T. And Junior hadn't been hit by the bullet, although he'd started crying again. While also looking bemused at the fact that Daddy was now oozing ketchup.

"You're bluffing, Your arms are shaking," C.T said. "You can't aim that thing."

"Wanna bet?" Tucker tried to say. Between the twin effort of holding the gun and holding Junior, he didn't have the energy to make the words. So all that came out was 'wammet?'

As he tried to stay standing, he saw someone move out of the corner of his eye. Smith stood just outside the window, though it wouldn't be visible from where C.T and Joannes were standing, due to the angle.

Smith held out his arms. Ready to grab Junior. Tucker took a couple of steps towards the window.

"Don't you dare, Tucker," C.T growled.

"Fuck you."

"There's no way you'd shoot that..."

Tucker fired a dart in the middle of C.T's sentence. It was a horrible shot. Tucker had never shot a gun in his life. Let alone a dart gun. The dart went flying through the air and hit the wall three feet from C.T. But it was distracting enough to let Tucker turn and pass Junior out the window to Smith.

"G-gehh..." Tucker choked out. He meant to say 'get Junior somewhere safe,' but it was all he could manage.

Smith ran like hell. Junior stared over his shoulder at Tucker, looking bemused.

"Son of a bitch!" he heard C.T shout behind him.

"Okay, kid's gone, can we get on with this?" Joannes said nervously as Tucker tried to climb to his feet, wavering like someone who had chugged a can of paint thinner.

"Doesn't... doesn't matter. They'll call the cops," Tucker said thickly, using the wall for support. He could see a small puddle of blood forming on the ground underneath him, but he couldn't see the bullet wound. After a few seconds, he lost his grip and toppled over.

"Oh, lovely idea, Jones. Let's stand around and argue while he throws his buttbaby out the window," C.T muttered. She approached Tucker slowly, pointing her weapon at him.

"It's Joannes," Joannes muttered bitterly. "I hate working for you, sometimes."

"Are you going to shut up and let me shoot him? Or shoot him yourself?"

"Shoot him myself? I don't even know how to use a gun! I'm only carrying it because you're dragging me into this sort of stuff."

Tucker's focus was veering in and out. He felt shaky and weak and his back hurt like a bitch. All he saw was that gun barrel pointed at his face.

"I should have killed you the second I laid eyes on you. You've been an absolute bitch," C.T muttered.

"You know what?" Tucker said slowly, trying not to fall over again. "I'm not done being a bitch yet."

He swung his hand at C.T's weapon. She was close enough for him to knock the weapon out of her hands, although a sharp pain went through his hand at the same time. The gun hit the ground, and he scrambled towards it as fast as he could, grabbing it with his good hand and pointing it at C.T.

"Aw, son of a..." C.T started to say.

Tucker's intention had been simply to get C.T to let him go. But when he stared at her, all he could think about was C.T's threats. This bitch had intended to kill Junior. To kill his kid. And Tucker took care of his kids.

The rage welled up. And Tucker fired what was left in the gun.

"Look out!" Joannes yelled.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots. Three bullets.

And not one hit the intended target. Because Joannes had panicked and shoved C.T out of the way. And two of the bullets had hit him instead.

"Suh... son of a..." he muttered, looking down at the two holes in his chest. He collapsed before he could finish.

"Jones? ...Joannes? Shit, Joannes?" C.T had momentarily forgotten Tucker. She started shaking Joannes. "Joannes, what the fuck are you doing? Get up! Get up already!"

And through all this, Tucker just sat there, still trying to fire the gun even though all it was doing was producing clicks.

Things were too fuzzy. And confusing. Everything was too red, and Tucker didn't quite understand why Joannes was the one lying down and bleeding instead of C.T.

The pain was too much. And things were too blurry. Tucker passed out. The last thing he saw was C.T picking up Joannes' gun.

* * *

Tucker, to his great surprise, didn't die in his sleep.

He woke up in a bright room. His back ached, but not as much as it had in C.T's house. His hand also hurt and was wrapped in something heavy. Bandages or something? He blinked at the ceiling for a while, trying to figure out why he wasn't dead. His brain wasn't producing any answers.

The room slowly came into focus. It was a hospital room. A nurse was fiddling around with a blood pack that was attached to his arm. Not a pretty nurse, but Tucker wasn't one to pass up the chance to ogle boobs.

The nurse went to fetch the doctor once she saw he was awake. The doctor came in a few minutes later. He was accompanied by a policeman.

"Hey," Tucker said cheerfully.

"You seem happy, Mr. Tucker," the policeman said sternly.

"Well, yeah. I'm alive. Which is awesome. Thought I was going to die."

"Yes, well... policemen were attracted by the sounds of gunshots and your friends dragging their attention to the scene. They arrived in time to stop Ms. Connie from shooting you."

"Heh. Connie. That's a girl's name."

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"Do you know what happened to Junior? Is he alright?"

"The child? He's fine. Barely even traumatized."

Another huge rush of relief went through Tucker's gut, this one bigger than the last. It hadn't been for nothing, then.

"Awesome."

The policeman took out a notepad. "How much, exactly, do you remember of the incident?"

"Uh. Bitch kidnapped my kid. I went to get my kid. Words and bullets were traded. And I woke up here. Why?"

"Mr. Tucker, you have been arrested on suspicion of manslaughter."

"Manslaughter? What?"

"The man you shot. Joannes. He died of his injuries."

Something dropped in Tucker's stomach. Joannes was dead? Tucker hadn't even meant to shoot him. He'd been trying to kill C.T, not him. And even the attempt at killing C.T had been very 'spur-the-moment.'

He'd feel fine if it was C.T who had kicked the bucket. But he was friendly with Joannes. The two had often performed as each other's wingman. Hell, Joannes had been the first guy he'd ever gone picking up chicks with. They weren't best buddies, sure, but...

"You've gone pale. I assume you didn't know," the policeman said.

"Oh. It's, uh... it's a shock," Tucker mumbled. "Hey, um... so, what is the sentence for manslaughter?"

"It varies. But we're also taking into account the many cons we're starting to get evidence of. Ms. Connie has pointed us towards several cons you've performed over the years. We've found, for a starter, rather risque photos of you and some businessman."

"Aw, fuck. That bitch."

"I would guess that you could be looking at something close to life. You might get parole in a few decades if you behave very well, but... who knows."

"Shit." Tucker stared off into the distance for a while. Regardless of what time he got, he'd be old by the end of his sentence. ...Junior would be old by the end of that. "When's the trial?"

"A date will be fixed soon."

"Can I ask for one thing before that happens?"

"If it's reasonable, Mr. Tucker."

"Can you call Crunchbite and get him to bring Junior here? I... I just want to hug my kid."

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Lavernius Tucker**

**Date Of Interview: November 07, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 3:30 P.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Max Gain**

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

**Gain: Evidence indicates that you have a long history of swindling.**

**Tucker: Well, guess you can believe that if you want... But come on. Look at me. Do I really look like the kind of face that would lie? Come on, look at me. I'm extremely good-looking, for one. No homo.**

**Gain: Yes, well... moving on, the records show that you have had a rather strange family life. Raised by a single mother, married twice but never for very long and once to an eighty-year-old woman, and one child that was created with science. Was any of this related to your cons?**

**Tucker: Well, the marriages were... but they were really gross marriages, alright? I earned every penny. But yeah, the whole single mother who was a prostitute thing... that is completely and totally the cause of my criminal ways. I'm from a broken home. I just need the love of a good woman to get me on the right path, if you know what I mean.**

**Gain: Are you exaggerating the broken home aspect to play for sympathy?**

**Tucker: Why would you think that?**

* * *

Tucker sighed and stared at the wall of his cell. Grey, crumbly bricks. So boring. This whole place was boring. And barely any boobs in sight. He'd only seen two women since he got into the place, and even if they were smoking hot they were so tough and vicious that it was like they were both half-shark.

He looked down at the scrap of paper he was holding. Crunchbite and Junior had come to visit during visiting hours. Crunchbite had handed him the paper. It was a crayon drawing that Junior had made. It showed a blueish blob and a bigger, dark blob. Tucker had assumed it was him and Junior, though it could easily be a picture of a chocolate covered blueberry.

Tucker looked at the crumbly grey wall again and stuck the crayon drawing to it. He needed something besides dull grey bricks to look at for the next couple of decades. And having Junior's pictures there made Junior seem less far away.

It wasn't so bad. One day he'd get out. And then he and Junior could go to baseball games and drive minivans and all that stuff that fathers and sons did.

In the meantime... there was no reason that Tucker couldn't continue conning on the inside. He had to do something for fun. He left his cell and wandered around looking for a mark. He quickly saw a grumpy, pale guy in a cell not far from his.

"Hey, uh... you."

"Fuck off."

"That's kinda douchey. I just wanted to talk."

"Get lost. No-one wants to talk to me. You're playing tricks."

"Oh, come on. At least tell me your name."

"It's Church, alright? Now fuck off."

"That's a ridiculous name..."

* * *

Caboose didn't do anything about the corpse that was sitting inside his closet. He barely even consciously thought about it. His mind had gone into some strange, hypnotic state where the murder barely even registered.

The morning after the murder, when Caboose woke up he noticed that the room smelt funny. It made his nose itch. He looked at the closet. Bloodstains had seeped from underneath the door.

He got to his feet and opened it up. Immediately, his eyes landed on the body of the stripper. It was easier to see her now that it was morning. Blood had dribbled all over the floor of the closet, and the twisted hole in her stomach was jagged and smelt like bathrooms. Then there was the face. It was blue and swollen from when Caboose had strangled her. It did not look nice at all, even though she had been pretty before... before it happened.

Caboose stood there for about ten minutes, staring down at the body. His mind completely blank. Then he grabbed some of the clothes from inside the closet, clothes that had no blood on them, and closed the closet door.

He got dressed and continued with his daily routine, as if there was nothing different about the day. Ate breakfast and then spent the next couple of hours once again trying to figure out how to use the iron without burning himself. After burning his hands a few times he gave up.

Then he returned to the closet, opened it again and spent more time staring at the corpse. He had no idea why. He just gazed at the swollen face and leaking stomach. He didn't freak out. He didn't do anything. He just stared.

After half an hour of gazing, he shut the closet door again and left to go to work.

When he got to work and resumed his job of standing next to the door and occasionally throwing out people who started groping the strippers, he saw the bartender watching him. The bartender raised an eyebrow and waved for him to come over.

"Hey, Caboose. Have you seen Sparkles?"

"...Uh. Who?"

"Oh god, right, you can never remember anyone's names..." The bartender rubbed his forehead before adding, "You know, the blonde chick who wears loads of body glitter."

"Nice Blonde Lady?"

"Yeah. You seen her? She should have been in by now and she said she was stopping at your place for... you know... a birthday surprise."

Caboose felt a tiny flare of panic in the bottom of his stomach, but it quickly went out to be replaced by the numb blankness he'd been feeling all day.

"I have not seen her."

"Did she show up at your place? She didn't freak you out, did she? I know you're uncomfortable around people who got it all hanging out."

"I have not seen her," Caboose repeated. "I am going to go back to work now."

He backed away from the bartender, who was frowning slightly. Caboose quickly distracted himself with a customer who was too drunk and rowdy. The hypnotic state returned.

If he ignored it then it would go away. That was what Mama had always taught him as a kid.

* * *

"_Sheila? Are you coming to bed?_"

"_Soon. Maybe_," Sheila said distractedly. She was sitting at her desk, rifling through a bunch of files and pamphlets and such. One of them was Caboose's patient file from his accident two years ago. The other files detailed the rest of his family, as well as several mental hospitals and other institutions.

She had intended to call Caboose's mother if Caboose didn't return home by himself by his birthday. But she hadn't yet. She was still organizing what she wanted to tell her.

Lopez frowned before wrapping an arm around her from behind, peering over her shoulder. "_Can't you work later?_"

"_I'm almost done. I'm just going over some things._"

"_Is this about that dopey guy from the strip club again?_"

"_Yes. I'm just... deciding on which place would be good for further treatment. Some therapy together with his family would probably be helpful. Maybe it would stop him from wanting to stay away from them._"

"_I don't suppose you can just close your eyes and point randomly at a pamphlet to figure out what place you're going to recommend, can you?_"

"_That's not exactly professional, dear._"

"_I didn't say it was. But all these cuckoo houses look similar._"

"_Please don't call them cuckoo houses..._"

"_Sorry._" Lopez picked up one of the pamphlets, glanced at it and quickly dropped it again. "_And there's no way I can help you get it done faster?_"

"_Probably not._"

"_Then I'll leave you alone._" Lopez squeezed Sheila tightly for a moment. "_Don't worry about it too much. You'll make the right choice. You always do._"

"_That's an over-flattering percentage. But I appreciate it, anyway,_" Sheila said, smiling slightly.

* * *

Caboose ignored the situation for two more days.

He continued with his usual routine. Breakfast, fiddling with the iron, lunch, work, going back home, sleeping. And then repeating it the next day.

The only breaks he took were the times when he would go back to the closet, open the door and start staring at the body again. Which was starting to smell.

He couldn't explain why he kept doing this. It was possible that his mind was just trying to break through the blank, hypnotic state that it was in by forcing himself to look at what he'd done. But inevitable, it always ended the same. With Caboose closing the door again and shutting the entire thing out.

Finally, on the fourth morning after the murder, something snapped Caboose out of it.

He had been mucking around with the iron again, trying not to burn himself on it this time, when someone knocked at his door.

Caboose blinked a few times and looked up at the door with confusion. The only people who ever came to visit him were the old lady whose basement he lived in and Blonde Stripper Lady. The old lady never came by more than once a month.

As for the stripper lady... it couldn't be her because... because...

Caboose's mind briefly shut down, but he was snapped out of it by another knock at the door. He put the iron down and approached the door. After a few moments of hesitation, he opened it a couple of inches, staring through the gap. He had to squint a little, because it was raining again and water drops were flying everywhere.

"Michael J. Caboose?"

There were two men standing out there in the rain. Caboose didn't recognise them. But they were wearing police uniforms. The main who had just spoken quickly flashed an ID, although it was impossible to read because it was splattered with raindrops. Also, Caboose hadn't been able to read since the car accident.

"My name is Detective Max Gain. I would like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?"

Cracks started to appear in Caboose's state of blank denial.

"There is nowhere to sit," Caboose muttered. "No good place for guests."

"We can stand."

"No, you cannot. That would be uncomfortable."

"It won't be as uncomfortable as standing out here. The steps are very slippery." Max Gain gestured at the rain before narrowing his eyes. "Is there a particular reason you don't want us in there, Mr. Caboose?"

"There is nowhere to sit. There are no chairs."

"And I've told you that's not a problem."

They weren't leaving. More cracks appeared. Caboose's pulse sped up and panic started to crawl into his stomach.

"Okay. You can come in," Caboose said reluctantly. "But you do not have to. We can go somewhere else. We could... go and buy cheeseburgers. That would be a much happier talk."

"This is fine. I just want to ask you a few questions."

As Caboose opened the door more and let the two policemen in, his eyes flickered to the closet. He saw that blood had dripped onto the floor in front of it. He tried to draw attention away from it.

"I will make sandwiches!" he yelled. "You can watch, if you want!"

"Sandwiches won't be necessary, this questioning should only go for a few minutes unless something comes up." Max Gain pulled out a notebook. "Just a background check, first off... how long have you worked at—"

"I did not see her," Caboose said quickly.

"Excuse me?"

"Um. The bartender man already asked me if I had seen Nice Blonde Lady. I have not." Caboose stepped backwards. His back bumped into the ironing board. "I do not know where she is."

Max Gain looked very suspicious all of a sudden. "How did you know this was about her, Mr. Caboose?"

The panic was rising. Caboose was starting to shake. His eyes automatically flickered to the closet.

"No reason. No reason. I was thinking about it because the bartender man already asked me and..." Caboose wanted to move backwards again, but he couldn't. His hand nudged the iron and he quickly yanked his hand back, rubbing the burns that were covering the skin. "I was just thinking about it, I do not have... I did not do anything. She was never here."

Caboose's eyes flickered towards the closet again. He couldn't stop them from doing so. And this time, Max Gain noticed. He looked at the closet. And his eyes traveled down towards the bloodstains on the floor.

The state of denial shattered into a million pieces.

The detective knew. He'd seen the bloodstains and he knew. He was going to yell and get angry and hurt him even though he didn't mean to do anything bad. Caboose couldn't let him. If he got mad, then he might tell Mama and Sheila about the bad thing he'd done and then he would be taken away to one of those places where bad people go.

_Stop them. Make them go away._

Max Gain had taken a couple of steps towards the cupboard. Close enough to smell the coppery scent and the icky smell that was like when you left meat out of the freezer.

"Mr. Caboose, you're—"

Before he could get further than three words, Caboose had done the first thing that came into his head. He'd grabbed the iron and swung it, smashing it into the side of Max's face. Max Gain was knocked to the ground.

"Holy shit!" The other policeman went for his gun. He had it halfway out of his holster when Caboose attacked him as well. This time, he got the man's face with the hot plate, burning his face severely. The gun went off, but the man was so distracted by the pain that despite the close range he completely missed. And he didn't have a chance to try again before Caboose bludgeoned his head in. He was unconscious after the first time Caboose smashed the iron into his skull. But Caboose kept going. The panic that had been suppressed for the last few days was spilling out all at once. Smash. Smash. Smash. The man's head was becoming a bloody pulp.

Caboose might have kept going, but he was interrupted by a bang.

The most blinding, white hot pain he'd ever experienced shot though his leg. Caboose dropped the iron and rolled onto his back, grabbing at where the pain was coming from. He felt blood. And he saw a gun barrel pointed at him. Max pointed it at him while trying to struggle to a sitting position. However, he was too dizzy to manage it. It was a miracle the bullet had hit Caboose at all.

_Make him stop. Hurt him. Hurt him back._

Caboose grabbed Max's arm and yanked it towards him, forcing the gun barrel to point elsewhere. When Max attempted to pull his arm free, lashing out with his free arm and his legs, Caboose twisted the arm as far in the wrong direction as possible. He heard a faint pop and a short scream, and the gun dropped from Max's fingers.

Caboose picked it up. His hands were shaking. Pain was still coursing through his leg. But after the initial shock, it felt muted underneath the rush of energy that was going through Caboose at the moment.

_It is hard to think if people get hurt in the head. If he cannot think, he cannot yell and then he cannot send me to the place for bad people._

Caboose shoved Max flat on the floor and pressed the barrel against the back of his head. Though... he wasn't really sure how to use a gun. Was it as easy as it looked in the cartoons?

Max had frozen, feeling the metal resting against the back of his skull.

"Don't do it," he warned. "You'll end up in a river of shit if you do."

The hesitation over how to use the gun had forced Caboose to stop and think properly. He finally realised what he was doing. He'd just clubbed a man to death with an iron. And he was about to shoot a second one. And there was a dead lady in his closet. And he'd killed his pet cat.

He had done bad things. He was a bad person now. Even if they'd made him do it. It wasn't his fault. They would have yelled at him and sent him to prison. Prison was for bad people. And he was a bad person, so maybe he should stop and let them take him there.

But he didn't want to go. And stopping now wouldn't help. He had to run. And he didn't want people following him.

Bang!

Now Max Gain wouldn't follow him. And now Caboose had done another bad thing.

Caboose gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pain in his leg, and started dragging himself to the wall so he could pull himself into a standing position. He had to leave. He had to get out before more policemen showed up. They always did in the movies.

It was hard to climb to his feet. Caboose fell twice. Once from simply overbalancing. And the second time, he put weight on his injured leg and the pain caused him to collapse again. He was attempting to claw his way back up again when someone knocked on the door.

_Oh no. They are here._

Caboose still held Max's gun. He pointed it at the door warily.

"No-one is home! Go away!" he yelled, his voice cracking as he did so.

The reply was the worst thing he could have heard at that moment.

"Mikey? Oh my god, it's really you!"

_Mama?_

"Please open the door! I'm not mad at you, I just want to talk to you! Please, Mikey!"

Caboose lowered the gun immediately. How did she find him? Did Sheila tell her where he was? Caboose had told her not to! No, no, no... why now?! Of all the times Mama could have appeared, why now?! She was going to see all the bad things and then she would hate him forever and ever even if she wasn't mad about the Apples thing.

"Go away!"

"But... But I miss you! So does your papa! And your sisters and nephews and nieces... even your father, lazy bum that he is, has been concerned! We just want you to come home."

"I said go away!"

Mama kept talking. "I didn't mean to yell at you, I was just stressed! Dr. Filss called me and recommend we take some therapy sessions as a family to help make all these problems go away! We can be a happy family again, Mikey, you just have to come home!"

"No. No, we cannot," Caboose whispered. "Cannot be happy again. Too many bad things. I would be in the way."

"Mikey—"

"I said get lost!" At the same time, Caboose raised the gun. He made sure to point it far away from the door before he fired it three times, shooting the wall. He would have shot more, but the gun was out of bullets. He heard a short scream from the other side of the door.

"Was that a gun?! I told you after you found Papa's shotgun in the shed! No using guns!"

"Go away. Or I will shoot you," Caboose lied.

There was a long pause.

"Michael? You've... you've done something really bad, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I knew this would happen if you ran off... Mikey, please just come home. Or at least open the door."

She wasn't leaving. It was like the policemen all over again. Except that Caboose couldn't hurt her to make her go away.

But he could pretend.

He edged his way towards the door, using the wall for support.

"Stay away from the door, Mama. Or I will shoot you. And... and do not look inside the room. It is... icky." He reached out and opened the door, nudging it open before making his way through it.

There was Mama. She had not removed her slippers or hair rollers. The rain was probably ruining the fluff in the slippers. Caboose pointed the empty gun at her.

"Please go away," he said. His voice shook badly that time. It was much harder to say it when he was actually looking at her. A huge part of him wanted to give up then and there. To drop the gun, hug Mama and just do what the mean policemen told him to.

Mama raised her hands, but she didn't back away. "You... you won't shoot me."

"I will. I am a bad person now. And that is what bad people do. They shoot mothers and... and other nice people that wear hair rollers."

"It's not in you. Not even with the... the head problems." Caboose heard the unsure tone in Mama's voice. She was probably thinking about Apples. Or about that time Caboose had gotten really mad at Dad. Or the other times Caboose had got suddenly mad, which had only started after the car accident.

"The detective man would not agree with you." Caboose lowered the gun anyway, but only so he could start pulling himself up the stairs that led up to the street. They were very slippery because of the rain.

Mama looked down at his leg and noticed the gunshot wound. "Oh my god! You shouldn't be walking on that, you—how did that even happen?! Did you shoot yourself in the leg or... no, wait... was someone shooting at you? I knew this looked like a bad neighbourhood and—STOP WALKING AWAY FROM ME, YOUNG MAN!"

Caboose did stop out of force of habit. When Mama started yelling like that it was best to listen. But then he remembered what he was doing and continued pulling himself up the stairs.

"Hang on, do you have a phone? I'll call 911, just stay still—OH MY GOD!"

Caboose winced. She'd pushed open the door. She'd seen the bodies. Now she knew for sure. Caboose didn't look back, he just kept going up the stairs. Everything was kind of blurry. Was it the rain? Or was he just losing too much blood?

"I said not to look," he murmured.

Mama didn't say anything. All Caboose heard was a bunch of choked sounds, like she was trying to talk but just had no words.

He was almost to the top of the stairs now. So close to being able to run. Or hobble, at least. He would be able to get away from the bodies and the police and Mama...

And then he felt hands grab his arm.

"Mikey, you... you need help. You need to turn yourself in." Mama's voice shook horribly and she was clearly having trouble getting out the words. She was having more trouble saying that then Caboose had when he threatened her. "I can't let you leave."

"Let go."

"I said turn yourself in, so listen to your mother!"

"And I said let go!"

Caboose yanked his arm free roughly. He wasn't quite sure what happened after that.

Had he shoved her when he pulled free? Or had her cheap slippers simply slid on the stairs? Later on, Caboose would remember it one way on some days, and remember it the other way the rest of the time.

The end result was the same. Caboose turned to see Mama falling down the stairs. She tumbled to the bottom of the stairs. Her head hit the bottom stair and Caboose heard it crack on the concrete.

It was completely silent after that. Except for the pattering of rain drops falling.

"Mama?"

The puddles around the stairs were red, because Caboose had bled all over them. The puddle under Mama's head was starting to get redder.

"Mama?"

Caboose dropped the gun, sat down and shuffled back down the stairs again, sliding through the puddles until he arrived next to Mama. He reached out and poked her carefully. There was no response.

"Mama? Mama?!"

She wasn't moving. Just like the policemen. Just like the nice stripper. Just like Apples.

"No. No. No, no, no. I... I did not... the gun was empty, I was not going to hurt you... it was a trick! I am sorry! Please... please do not play tricks on me! Get up and yell at me! I am sorry! I did some bad things, please stop playing tricks! Please get up! Mama, get up! Now! I... I did not mean for this to happen... I..."

Caboose started shaking her roughly. Her eyes were open. That meant she was okay, right? She was fine! Just tired! She couldn't be dead, because Caboose wouldn't kill Mama. He was not that bad.

"I will... I will let you stay in my bed! You can have a nice nap! And then you will wake up and be fine and you can be angry at me if you want, but you will be fine!" He tried to pick her up, but with his bad leg he couldn't carry her. So he started to drag her back inside, pulling her by her arms along the ground.

Caboose dragged her all the way to his bed and, with some effort, managed to move Mama into the bed. He carefully tucked her in, making sure the blankets were all nice and non-wrinkly, and making sure the pillow was as fluffy as he could manage. Just like she had done for him when he was a little kid.

"I am sorry for the smell," Caboose said to her. He reached out and grabbed her hand, clinging to it tightly. "It is not as nice as back home. I miss home. But... but you were probably happier. Right? And you will be happy when you wake up and go back. You will be fine, you just need to feel warm and happy. I would make you chicken soup, but I do not know how..."

Things were still blurry. Caboose rested his head on the blankets.

"When you wake up, please make sure I am not asleep. The policemen are still mad at me... but I am tired. A little nap will be good."

Caboose passed out a few moments later. He wasn't awake when the policemen kicked down his door, looking for Max Gain and his partner.

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Michael J. Caboose**

**Date Of Interview: March 5th, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 11:20 A.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Utah**

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

**Utah: Okay, so after you killed Max... what did you do, then?**

**Caboose: ...I do not want to talk about this. **

**Utah: Not talking isn't going to do you any favours.**

**Caboose: I know.**

**Utah: And we might have to try again if we don't get it all over with, now. And I'm sure you don't want to spend too much time in this place. Max was friends with a lot of the staff here.**

**Caboose: Yes. They told me. ...They were really mean. I am not allowed to talk about it.**

**Utah: Were they hitting you? They're not allowed to do that. ...Nodding or shaking your head doesn't get caught on the audio tape. ...Same goes for hand signals.**

**Caboose: But they said I was not allowed to say anything.**

**Utah: Okay, then. Well, back to the interview... concerning your mother...**

**Caboose: I do not want to talk about it!**

**Utah: Are you sure?**

**Caboose: I did not kill her. I would not do that. I... I do not think I did. I did not mean to, if I did... But Papa was glaring at me. He says that I did. And then he said I died in a car accident. Which is not right, either! I am still alive.**

**Utah: I think it's a turn of phrase.**

**Caboose: He would not believe me. I did not mean to hurt Mama. Why does everyone keep acting like I... I... Why are you yelling at me about it?**

**Utah: ...I haven't raised my voice.**

**Caboose: I don't want to answer any more questions! Leave me alone!**

**The transcript ended here. Attempts to finish the interrogation were made, but the suspect refused to speak another word to any of the staff after this interview.**

* * *

A few days after being moved to Valhalla Penitentiary, Caboose sat at one of the cafeteria tables, poking at the macaroni. It looked very orange. Maybe it was supposed to match the jumpsuits. Caboose didn't know if it tasted orange. He had never tried it. He hadn't eaten a thing since he got locked in the prison. He was not hungry. Even when he felt hungry, he did not want to eat.

He did not deserve food. He was a bad person. And he didn't think he'd killed Mama... but Papa said that he had. And Papa was always right about everything else. Maybe he did do it, and he was just so stupid that he hadn't realised it.

It was confusing. He didn't like to think about it. But there was too much time for thinking in here, even though Caboose was really bad at it.

As he moodily pushed the food around on his plate, someone grasped his shoulder from behind. Caboose moved to turn around, but whoever was standing around snapped at him.

"Don't turn around. People looking at me makes me... erm. Uncomfortable. It's much safer not to be seen." Caboose stopped trying to turn around. "I see you're not eating your food. You wouldn't be suffering any feelings that are making it hard for you to eat, would you? Guilt, perhaps? It's a very common thing in a cesspool like this. So? Feeling guilty? I could help you with that."

"...Are you my conscience?"

Whoever was standing behind him laughed. The laugh was kind of scary. "Sure. Why not. But I think for simplicity's sake, you can just call me O'Malley. Now, if you want to relieve some guilt... perhaps you could help me with some things?"

"Will I be hurting people?"

"Only bad people. Which is a good thing for everyone else."

It sounded reasonable.

* * *

Riding trains across the state, all the way back to his apartment, was tiring. Donut fell asleep several times and would always wake up curled on a slightly fragrant train seat. Once a kid stuck gum in his hair while he was sleeping, which had caused Donut to have a pretty large freakout.

The last couple of weeks had been kinda shit in general, really. What with everything that had happened with his mamas and gum in the hair on top of that. The week couldn't get any worse.

Donut stopped at a hairdressers on the way home to get the gum out of his hair. Because he just couldn't be seen like that in public. It was icky, sticky, tacky and other words that ended in -ky.

It felt like months before Donut finally arrived back in the city, even though it had only been a couple of days. Donut rubbed his eyes and yawned before getting to his feet and stumbling out the train, trying to pick all the little bits of train seat fluff off his clothes.

It'd only be a little while before he was traveling that distance again. Maybe he could convince the movers to let him ride in the back of the truck.

As Donut walked past a set of public phone booths, someone tapped him on the shoulder. A pale guy with black hair.

"Excuse me? Do you have a quarter?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure." Donut handed the guy a quarter before hurrying off, barely hearing the man's thank you. He just wanted to go home, get some of the packing over with and make some cupcakes. Maybe cake would soften Maine up before Donut told him he was leaving. He wasn't sure how to break that to him, and it would probably be hard for Maine to find a new roommate. Since he couldn't speak English or any other recognisable language.

Maybe it'd be alright if he stuck around long enough to help with that...

* * *

Back at the apartment, Maine was throwing shoes at a spider on the ceiling. The usual method of passing time. Better than cycling through television channels. Never anything good on at this time. Only stupid renovation programs that Donut liked. He probably also liked watching paint dry. Strange person.

As he pulled off his other shoe to throw at the spider, the phone rang. Probably another of Donut's weird friends. Judging by previous calls, his friends seemed to be exclusively high-pitched girls who squealed regularly and had the attention spans of goldfish.

Meta considered ignoring it. But the noise was too irritating. It made it difficult to aim shoes. Maine climbed to his feet, stomped into the kitchen and picked up the phone. He snarled loudly into the receiver. Hopefully, it would scare whoever was on the other line.

"Meta?"

Meta's attention had still been distracted by the spider on the ceiling. But it immediately latched itself onto the voice. He knew the voice. Although he hadn't heard it in years. It was Epsilon. He'd recognise it anywhere. The use of the name 'Meta' was another tipoff. He hadn't been called that for a long time.

"Grr?"

"Look, there's a surprisingly large amount of Maines in this phone book. And I didn't know if that was your first or last name..."

"Grr."

"Anyway, how are you? I haven't seen you in forever. Wait, I had something urgent to talk about, the catching up can wait and I don't have another quarter to call back."

"Grr?"

"Here's the thing... I just found out Leo's not dead. Did you know that?"

"Grr..." Maine muttered sheepishly.

"Aw, dude! Why the fuck didn't you tell me?!" Epsilon yelled. "Why'd you keep that a secret from me? For a whole decade!"

"Gaaarh..."

"I don't care what Leo said, he was being an idiot! Only reason I know was because I realised I Googled his name this one time, and the thing about him getting arrested came up... Okay, that's not the point here, either." There was a pause, before Epsilon continued. "I found out which prison he's in. And I want to break him out. He doesn't deserve to be in there... I mean, okay, he helped kill Dad, but so did I... that was my fault... And he told the cops he killed me. He never did that! I mean, the fact that I'm talking to you is proof enough. Point is, Leo shouldn't be the one to pay for all of it."

"Grr, gaarh," Maine argued.

"Alright, so he killed a lot of people. But I still don't wanna leave him in there. I miss him! Anyway, I was wondering... if you could help me get him out?"

Maine pondered this. Breaking into a prison to rescue Alpha. It sounded exciting and very stupid. He was not a fan of the second part. But he was also bored. He hadn't done anything illegal for a while. Jobs had been few and far apart. He'd just been a freelance thug for the last decade.

"I mean, it's cool if you don't want to. But you'd probably know someone who'd help me, right? I can do most of it, I just need someone to distract the people at the nearest construction yard while I steal a bulldozer."

"...Gr, gaaarrh."

"I have too thought it through!" Epsilon protested. "Are you in?"

Maine considered it for a few more moments, then shrugged. "Grrr."

"Fucking awesome. You're the greatest. So, if I show up there in, say... fifteen minutes? Would that be alright? Is there anyone there who might eavesdrop?"

"Grr."

"A blabbermouth roomie? Aw, shit."

"Garrh, grr."

"Oh, that's lucky, then. Wouldn't want anyone listening in, especially gossipy fruity dudes. Okay, I'll be there as soon as possible."

Click. Epsilon hung up. Maine dropped the phone on the receiver. Then he returned to the room where he'd left his shoes. Throwing shoes at the spider would pass the time.

Ten minutes later, the front door swung open. Maine heard Donut call out.

"Maine! I'm back!"

Shit.

Donut walked into the room. He was already babbling.

"Oh man, train rides suck. And not in the fun way. They smell funny and a kid stuck gum in my hair and you know how past midnight there's always those creepy guys who stare at you? They were everywhere. Anyway, how are you?"

Five sentences in as many seconds. Donut didn't wait for a response.

"Well, I can't really understand the accent you speak in, so I guess asking is kind of useless. Anyway, I'm gonna cook some cupcakes, do we have any ingredients? And I have things to tell you, but first I'll get the cupcakes started. I really need to relax, and cooking is the best for that. All the nice smells and warm ovens and whatnot."

Donut headed into the kitchen. Maine scowled and glanced in the direction of the front door. Epsilon would arrive soon. And Maine had promised there would be no roommate here. Maine had to make him leave.

"Gaaarrh, grr?" Maine suggested.

"You're right, Maine. Something with blueberries in it would be fantastic," Donut said cheerfully.

Telling him to leave wouldn't help. Maine couldn't see any pens or paper in the room. He couldn't write down what he meant. It was impossible to tell him to stay out of the house. Especially since Donut was a complete moron.

"So, I'm gonna be leaving and going back to my family soon," Donut said. Maine perked up at this news. "And I know that'll be terrible for you, but I'll still be here for the next week." Maine immediately returned to scowling. "I'll even help you find a new roomie. But yeah, I need time to pack everything. By the way, before I left I was looking for my box of persimmon-coloured fabric, have you seen it?"

Donut opened a drawer and took out some equipment he needed. Giant wooden spoon. Whisk. Knife.

Knife...

Maine eyed the drawer. Knives. Knives were sharp. Pointy. Lethal. They got rid of problems. Much better than talking. Maine glanced between the drawer and Donut. He started to move towards it. Donut kept talking.

"You know, I'm not really in a blueberry mood. What I'd love right now is some raspberry. Still berries, but the different kinds make all the difference."

Maine reached into the drawer and located a sharp steak knife. Perfect. He was sure Epsilon would prefer a dead roommate to a babbling one. Maine definitely would.

"But, you know... raspberry doesn't seem quite right, either. Oh, look! Chocolate-chip cookie mix! Maybe that'd be better, let's see how many servings a packet of that has..." Donut crouched down to grab the cookie mix from a lower cabinet, just as Maine threw the knife at him.

* * *

Donut heard a thunk just above his head. He looked up to see a knife sticking out of the cabinet above him.

"Hm? I don't remember that being there." Donut tugged the knife out of the cabinet. "Hm. Steak knife. Eh, it's not right for this."

Maine growled. Probably frustrated at how long it was taking for Donut to make food. Donut shrugged and looked at the back of the packet of cookie mix.

"Well, never mind the cakes. This stuff makes a fair amount of cookies. You like cookies, right? Maine? Just nod or shake your head."

Maine did neither. He was looking through the drawers. After a few moments, he scowled and looked back at Donut.

"Nod or shake your head. Cookies? Yes or no?"

Maine started walking towards him. A low growl was coming from him. Different from what Donut had heard before. This growl sounded... angry. Not Maine's usual angry growl, like when he lost at a video game or accidentally threw his shoe out of the window when he was aiming for the spider. It was different. And it made Donut shiver a little.

"Whoa, if you hate cookies that much, just say so—aaaaah!"

Donut ducked again as a fist came flying at him. He quickly jumped back, holding his hands out.

"Okay! No cookies! Jeez! Just calm down, alright? I'm backing away from the cookie mix!"

Maine attacked again. Donut dodged before grabbing the steak knife off the counter and backing away.

"Okay, just... just calm down, please," Donut said shakily, holding the knife in front of him. "I'm armed! I'm good with knives! You've seen that. Like when I made that cake shaped like a unicorn. I'll make you one if you stop glaring at me like that!"

He saw a small grin flicker across Maine's face, accompanied by a snarl.

"Eep." Donut tried to ward him off by waving the knife around wildly. As he did so, the tip of the cake knife scratched Maine's arm. Maine frowned and looked down at the scratch.

"Uh. Sorry! But you kinda started it! Can we stop? Please?"

Maine didn't stop. As he came charging towards Donut, he had a weird flashback to the time when he'd been hit by a car as a child. That was all that occurred to him before he was tackled by a huge wall of pure, psychotic muscle.

Donut hit the wall hard. The impact left him dizzy. He felt the knife fly out of his hands and, out of the corner of his eye, saw it land a few feet away.

Maine grabbed Donut's throat and kept him pinned against the wall. Donut's feet weren't even touching the ground. They just dangled. Donut's nails scrabbled at the back of Maine's hand, but he couldn't get him to let go. His grip was too tight.

_Can't... breathe..._

Donut clawed at Maine's face. His manicured nails left shallow scratches along Maine's cheek. Maine snarled and used his free arm to slam his elbow in Donut's nose, shattering it. Bright lights exploded under Donut's eyelids. For a few moments, it was all he could see.

Donut tried to scratch more. He tried to hurt Maine in some way that would make him let go. But his arms felt heavy, like weights had been tied to them. They stopped scratching and dropped to dangle at his sides.

Throat hurt. And his fingers and toes felt numb, all of a sudden. And he still couldn't breathe... He couldn't even ask Maine to stop.

He was going to die. Just because his roommate didn't like cookies.

As Donut's vision started to go black, a noise rang out through the apartment.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It came from the door. And Donut felt Maine's grip slacken. Just a tiny little bit, as Maine's attention was drawn to the front door.

Donut rasped for what little air he could manage. And then, because he could think of nothing else to do, he swung his foot through the air. And kicked Maine right in the crotch.

Maine didn't make a sound. But his eyes bulged slightly and his grip disappeared completely, letting him fall to the floor. Donut landed next to his knife. Without thinking, he grabbed it.

As Maine reached towards him, face twisted in an ugly expression of pure fury, Donut raised his arm and thrust the knife forward.

He hit Maine right in the throat.

The muted reaction to being kicked in the balls was nothing compared to this. Maine let out the most horrible, inhuman scream that Donut had ever heard, clutching his throat. The scream was accompanied by a choking, gurgling sound as blood clogged up his throat. Donut pulled the knife out and attacked again, this time hitting Maine in the chest. He hit him again. And again. And again.

When Maine toppled over, still screaming and clawing at his throat, Donut just kept attacking. Stab, stab, stab, stab, stab. Soon, he heard none of the snarling and screaming. It was drowned out by the sound of blood pounding through his ears, as adrenaline pumped through him.

Attack. Attack. Attack. Donut couldn't say when Maine stopped thrashing around. Donut only stopped attacking when he became too tired to lift his arm.

He breathed heavily, trying to choke down enough air to keep himself from fainting. His throat felt like it was on fire. It was like trying to breathe while being smothered by a pillow. Maine was lying on the ground. Occasionally, he'd twitch. But other than that, nothing.

Donut dropped the knife. His hands were sticky. The smell of blood was filling his nostrils. The thick, coppery scent was overpowering all other senses.

Donut turned away from Maine and walked shakily towards the kitchen sink. He turned on the water and stuck his hands underneath. He scrubbed at them until they were raw. But even when they were red and starting to blister from the intense scrubbing, they still felt sticky.

And the smell was still there. The thick, coppery smell.

Donut took a deep breath. Another deep breath. And then he doubled over and threw up in the sink.

* * *

Epsilon stood outside the door, rocking back and forth on his feet. He was holding a small package of uncooked steak. He didn't know how else to pay Meta for his help. And he knew that barely cooked steak was a favourite of his.

He was kind of nervous. He always got nervous back when Leo and the others were plotting crime. Even when he had wanted to be involved, the business still made him nervous. And it had just gotten worse after the whole Washington thing.

But this was the good kind of crime. For good reasons. It wasn't like he was going to break Leo out just so he could get him to shoot other people in the face or anything. He'd get Leo out, and then they'd... move to Mexico or something. Okay, he could have thought it out better... but he was more focused on the actual escape.

Epsilon raised a hand and knocked on the door three times.

At first, there was no response. Then he heard a clunk. And then... screaming. This horrible, inhuman snarl that the entire building probably heard. Epsilon stared with wide eyes at the door.

That was Meta. It had to be. But... why was he screaming like that?

Epsilon heard another thump. As he did, he reached out and twisted the doorknob. He opened the door slowly, trying not to make a sound. Whatever the noise was about, Epsilon didn't like it. It made him shiver.

He slid through the door, still holding the package of steak. He crept further in. The noise was coming from the kitchen. And Epsilon heard a squishing noise. Squish. Squish. Squish.

He could smell blood.

_Even though he was in a cupboard, he could smell a whiff of that horrible coppery smell and he shaked as Daddy hammered on the door, and it was only a matter of time before he reached him and Leo wasn't there to help him—_

Epsilon crept closer. He could see glimpses of movement. And short, panicked breaths. The inhuman screaming was now almost non-existent.

He peered through the door and saw a tiny man with bleached blond hair. He recognised it as the same guy who'd leant him a quarter just fifteen minutes ago. He was holding a knife. He was stabbing—

_He watched from the door as Leo cut out Daddy's throat to stop him from—_

Meta was sprawled on the ground, twitching. He was staring in Epsilon's direction but couldn't see him. His eyes looked blank.

Epsilon let out the start of a scream but clapped his hands over his mouth before it could be anything more than a squeak. The bleached blond man didn't seem to hear him. He just dropped the knife and stumbled over to the sink.

Something in the bottom of Epsilon's stomach dropped out. He backed away, just in case the blond man turned around and came after him. As he did, old memories that he'd tried to suppress for twenty years came drifting back into his head.

_"Dad won't hurt you. I'll make sure of it. Just go to the bathroom. Quickly." And Eddie listened to him even though he was scared because Leo was the biggest and strongest big brother that anyone had ever had and he always knew best—_

He heard a retching noise coming from the kitchen. Then he heard footsteps and the click of someone picking up a phone.

"Hello? Um... I really need an ambulance. Something kinda... happened. He just... I need an ambulance," Epsilon heard the man mumble. "I... I kinda... stabbed him in the throat. ...No, it was an accident, I was terrified—"

_"...he saw me and he started shouting and waving his b-bottle at me and I thought h-he was going to hurt m-me..."_

Epsilon backed away through the front door. He didn't close it behind him. Once he was far enough from the apartment not to be heard, he broke into a run.

He only slowed down once he was a few blocks away. Once he was far enough from Meta's apartment, he slumped against the wall and covered his hands.

Meta had been the last person he had. They hadn't talked for years and had gotten kind of distant, but Meta had still always been there. Always there, like a big, warm pet cat who could kill people really easily.

People just... just kept dying around him. Right from when he was born. First Mama. Then Daddy. Then once he and Leo had run off to the city, there had just been more death. Just after arriving in the city, the deaths of Jimmy and Mickey had followed them, even though Epsilon hadn't realised it at the time. Then Sigma had died. Gary had been shot because they thought he was hurting Epsilon, that was his fault for being dumb enough to go into the basement and let Washington free... Then he'd thought for years that Leo was killed during the attack on the Director's home.

It just kept happening. Although, Delta and Theta were still alive. Though in Theta's case, when Epsilon had found out what he did... Theta was alive, but it wasn't for a lack of trying on Epsilon's part. He'd lost his head a bit, and Delta had run him off after that.

But now Meta. And now Meta. The first day in years that Epsilon contacted him. And that was the day his roommate stabbed him. Too much of a coincidence. Epsilon felt like the Grim Reaper.

Epsilon held his head, trying to stop thinking about it and trying to ignore the stinging in his chest that had started once he saw Meta's body.

He couldn't ask for help from anyone else. Even if he knew who to ask... he didn't want anyone else to die.

He'd just have to rescue Leo on his own.

Epsilon wiped his eyes briefly before setting off towards the nearest construction yard. It couldn't be that hard to steal a bulldozer by himself...

* * *

**Person Interviewed: Franklin Delano Donut**

**Date Of Interview: July 17th, XXXX**

**Time Of Interview: 1:40 P.M**

**Interview Conducted By: Detective Utah**

**Extract from the full interrogation.**

**Utah: You think that your roommate tried to kill you because he hated cookies?**

**Donut: What other reason could he have had?**

**Utah: Is that really the only motive you could give?**

**Donut: Sure. I mean, come on! Who'd want to kill me?**

**Utah: I can't think of a response to that.**

**Donut: I was a good roomie, alright? I made him a cake in the shape of a unicorn!**

**Utah: Are you so certain it was self defence?**

**Donut: Yes! I keep saying that!**

**Utah: You stabbed your roommate several times. Once in the throat. That seems less than accidental.**

**Donut: He started it! Look at these bruises! He was strangling me! My feet were off the ground!**

**Utah: I would imagine that he would have defended himself if you came at him with a knife.**

**Donut: But I... it was self-defence, okay? I mean, I didn't want to kill him. He was okay until he tried to kill me. He always kind of had that serial killer vibe, though.**

* * *

In jail, while he awaited transfer to Valhalla, Donut managed to locate the phones. One phone call. Maybe he'd get more inside prison. Probably not, though. They'd probably have no communication. Or fabric softener. Or anything nice like that...

Donut dialled the number and waited. On the sixth ring, however, the answering machine picked up.

"Hi, you've reached the Delano residence. No-one's here right now," Donut heard Mama Liz's recorded voice say. "Just leave a message after the beep and we'll get back to you, choppity chop. Bye!"

Beep. Donut considered just hanging up. He didn't want to break the news to them over the phone. But what else could he do? One phone call.

"Uh. Hi. It's Donut. I... I'm sorry I never showed up back home. Problems... problems kinda happened. I really didn't mean for it to happen. But... my roommate attacked me and I killed him, and they've charged me with murder. I... I won't be getting out of prison for a while.

"I'm... I'm sorry. It feels like I'm running off again. Mama Julie, I'm... I'm still sorry for taking so long to show up, before. And I'm really sorry that I can't come back and help you like I promised. Guess I'm a really crappy son. Maybe you should have chosen someone else at the orphanage, huh? Maybe... maybe keep that in mind, if you ever invent a time machine. Go back and tell your past selves to adopt an adorable little girl with no murderous tendencies, instead.

"So, uh, I might not be able to call back for a while. I don't know how phones work. And... you might not want to talk to me. So, um... yeah. I'll keep it short. Mama Julie, I love you and I'm really sorry for not sticking around. And Mama Liz, I love you too, I'm not showing favourites because I mentioned Mama J first. And don't give her anything too overly spicy, it probably won't help with the, uh... the sick thing." Donut stopped to make sure his voice wasn't shaking. This was not a good time to cry. But he had nothing left to say, anyway.

"Um. Yeah, that's all I got... So, uh. Bye."


	125. Chapter 116: Dark Threats

**Chapter One Hundred And Sixteen: Dark Threats**

"So, if Doc calls you up there for a therapy session, what are you gonna say?" Tucker asked, three days after Doc returned to the prison as the new therapist.

"What do you mean, what am I gonna say?"

"Well, it's not like Doc's gonna be any good at it. If we have to go through that shit, might as well have fun. I'm gonna pretend I have a dark, troubled past and see how far I can go with it before he realises I'm pulling his strings." Tucker grinned and put his hands behind his head. Lying on the concrete didn't look very comfortable in Church's opinion, but Tucker seemed insistent on it.

"Still seems boring as fuck."

"It's not just for fun. If he goes along with it... maybe he'll figure that the bad past caused me to end up in here. That it's societies' fault and all that. If he tells that to the parole board, it might up my chances of getting out of here. I mean, not for a while, but still..."

Tucker trailed off. Church didn't bother to fill in the silence. It'd been happening a lot lately. They kept struggling to find things to talk about. Hell, they were discussing therapy that hadn't happened yet. That meant they were scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Sure, occasional gaps in the conversation were inevitable. Especially in a place where nothing ever happens apart from the occasional clusterfuck of a riot. And that wasn't that good of a conversation topic, seeing as all it did was fuck shit up for people. Not in the 'ha ha, their shit is fucked up' way. More like 'oh damn, their shit is fucked up, that sucks and it isn't fun to talk about' way.

But these gaps were getting too long and numerous. To the point where a lot of the day would be spent just sitting there in awkward silence.

Church had a nagging feeling that Tucker was still mad about the whole 'gay thing.' He hadn't mentioned it since they started talking again. And apart from one assurance that he wasn't hitting on him, Church hadn't mentioned it either. Mostly because if he did bring it up... that would just bring the whole clusterfuck up again. At which point Tucker would scream at him and run off again.

There was a good chance that the only reason Tucker wasn't doing that now was because he needed Church to steer him around whenever he needed to go to the bathrooms. He couldn't find his way there on his own.

Speaking of which...

"Dude. Dude. Duuuude." Tucker had been prodding him for the last minute. But Church had zoned out so much that he hadn't noticed.

"Yeah?"

"You think they have any books in braille at the library? I can go there again now that Miller is dead."

"...You don't know braille."

"I'll pick it up as I go along. Come on, let's go."

"But the library blows... unless you find one of the books that has porn magazines hidden in it, anyway."

"Well, unless the porn is in braille it's not gonna do much for me... But come on! I'm bored! And you have to come with, you're my seeing eye dog."

"I'll go if you stop calling me one of those fucking labradors."

"What about a labradoodle?"

"I hate you. Alright, let's go. If it'll shut you up."

Church was just glad that his gross, annoying and somewhat loving feelings towards Tucker weren't teenage-girly enough to make him go red every time he had to grab Tucker to steer him around the prison like a strange shopping trolley. Not that it mattered if he did go red like a schoolgirl, Tucker wouldn't be able to tell. But that didn't matter because it was just grabbing his shoulder, it was barely human contact at all. And it didn't bother him at all. Even if he was thinking about it far too much.

They could just forget about the 'gay thing.' That would probably work out best, anyway. No need to go through the screaming again. No point in talking about it at all.

* * *

Wash was hiding from Doc.

His version of hiding consisted of trading shifts with York, so that he'd patrol the corridors rather than the yard. He wasn't literally hiding in a pile of laundry or anything like that. Although he was somewhat tempted.

Leaving his pepper spray with Doc had been a mistake. For one, his belt felt too light without it. Nightsticks didn't pack the same kind of punch as pepper spray. And he was convinced that Doc, idiot that he was, was going to misplace it or leave it in reach of a violent inmate. Wash didn't need to be shouted at for his belongings ending up with inmates again. The amount of flak he'd gotten for O'Malley getting hold of his keys had been massive...

Although getting to see O'Malley sprayed in the eyes had actually been rather cathartic.

But that wasn't what was annoying him the most. It seemed that giving Doc his pepper spray had brought an unforeseen side effect. Now Doc kept coming to him every single time there was a problem. Normally when one of the inmates started acting up during a therapy session and Doc didn't want to get violent. He always seemed to seek out Wash for help.

It wasn't just that. Doc didn't always want something or need help. He just kept showing up to talk. He just kept rambling. And asking questions about Wash. Which was weird. People didn't ask questions about him. They usually realised quickly that Wash didn't like questions and would just ignore them if they came up. Doc hadn't received the message.

It was just 'what do you do outside of work' and 'are you friends with York' and 'I heard you once ate out of a trash can, what was that like' and 'do guards get paid overtime like therapists do?'

Incidentally, Wash had to wonder why he didn't get overtime and yet Doc, who had a job that Wash had made up on the spot, somehow did.

The last time Doc had seen him, which was during lunch time, he was carrying a notebook and a pencil with him and kept scribbling down what Wash's responses were. Wash didn't want to know why he was doing that. If he tried to pull any therapist bullshit on him then he was getting punched.

The bottom line was that Doc was following him around a lot. It was weird. Especially since Wash had kidnapped him and dragged him back to a rather dangerous job. It was like some strange form of Stockholm Syndrome.

But for now, trading shifts seemed to be helping him escape. Although Wash wouldn't be surprised if York ratted him out. Although York wasn't refusing to talk to him anymore, he was still noticeably grumpy whenever Wash was around.

Wash walked past the bathrooms. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Donut and doubled back. He hadn't bothered Donut since before the riot, but he still had to make good on making the kid's life a living hell if he didn't tell him how he killed the Meta.

Donut wasn't doing anything. He was just staring at the mirror. Looking troubled and rather distant. Wash stayed still, deliberating on what would be the best way to open this conversation. Maybe if he just went right to the usual 'how'd you kill him' question he could startle an answer out of him.

"What do you want, Wash?" Donut grumbled. He hadn't turned around. But he'd spotted Wash's reflection in the mirror. And there went the element of surprise. "Why're you lingering around? And why are you always creeping around near the bathrooms?"

"Coincidence."

"Yeah, right. A bathroom creeper is what you are."

"Whatever, believe what you want."

"Anyway, I'm sick of that whole 'how did you kill Maine' thing. I mean, seriously, whenever you start creeping you bring it up," Donut said. As he complained, he turned on the tap and started scrubbing at his hands. "And whenever you bring it up you sound like a broken record. Find a new soundtrack already. Something with some light pop music in it or something."

"...What."

"You know what I mean! It's repetitive, alright?"

"I know. But if you would just tell me..."

"I have told you..."

"Or give me a plausible reason for why I should believe it was luck."

"A reason it was—Have you even looked at me?" Donut turned around and gestured angrily at himself. "I have the body of a teenage girl! A wimpy one! Even if I had skill, I probably wouldn't be able to take down Maine with it. I won because Lady Luck decided to handcuff herself to my bed that day, alright? Or the male version did, anyway. Is there a Sir Luck?"

"The fact that you look like a sixteen-year-old girl actually works against that. Luck only does so much," Wash replied. "And that doesn't account for any weaknesses on the Meta's part. Even just that would be good to know."

"Well, he was kinda psychotic, I'm sure that's a disadvantage in some way. But I was paying too much attention to not dying to look for things like weaknesses. Funny how that works." Donut sighed before turning back to the sink and sticking his hands underneath the water again. "And now you're gonna threaten me."

"Yes."

"Figures."

"You look less nervous than usual."

"Eh... I've heard the threats before. You repeat them every time we meet, really. Also, the... um... the riot gave me a little perspective on things. The threats don't seem so terrible compared to the stuff that happened during that, you know?"

Donut turned the water off and walked past Wash and away from the bathrooms. He was a few meters away when Wash spoke up again.

"North told me you had a screwdriver to O'Malley's throat when he walked in on you during the riot." As he said that, Donut came to a halt. "And there were two dead bodies nearby. No-one's been charged for those two, you know. We tried asking who killed Simmons and that little flag-worshipping guy. But O'Malley just giggled like always does, no-one could understand Lopez's Spanish and your friend Grif was catatonic during the questioning.

"As for you... you told the other guards you got there too late to do anything for either of them and that you didn't see who killed them. It might just be me... but dead bodies and near-death situations just seem to crop up around you. And you just happened to get there right after it happened, did you? Seems a little convenient. Are you covering up for someone else's murders? Or your own? Were you about to add a third body onto the pile when North walked in?"

Donut looked down for a moment before turning around and walking slowly back. He came to a stop right in front of Wash.

"Okay. Let me set something straight with you. And don't give me any of Tucker's crap about 'hurr hurr shouldn't you be setting things gay, Dye-Job' because I'm not in the fucking mood for it, alright?" Donut pointed at Wash, almost like he'd intended to jab Wash in the chest but held back. "Look, your stupid accusations are usually just annoying and kind of scary. But this? I'm not gonna say I didn't kill Maine. I did, even if it was luck. If that makes me a cold-hearted asshole of a murder, then fine. I deserve that.

"And if you want to accuse me of killing that red zealot... it's not true, but believe what you want. If you claim that I was about to kill O'Malley... well, maybe that's true. Maybe it isn't. I'm not even sure. But you can say that if you want to.

"But..." At this point, Donut's voice started to shake a little. "If you even imply that I did that to Simmons? Then I swear I will find some way to lock you in a dark room. And I will throw away the key. I may be shit scared of you, but I will find a way. Got that?"

"Those are big words for someone who claims to have the fighting ability of a wimpy teenage girl," Wash said. He removed his nightstick and prodded Donut in the chest. "If you want to back up those words with some proof that you can live up to that threat... now's your chance."

"I'm not that dumb, Wash. If I slap a prison guard in the face I'll pretty much destroy my chances at parole." Donut backed away and started to walk off. "But there isn't such a strong penalty against locking people in empty, harmless rooms that just happen to have no lights, is there?"

Wash was left to ponder those threats. People yelling threats at him weren't anything new. He worked in a prison, threats were something that occurred regularly. But there were few who threatened him with something that actually sounded legitimately unpleasant, as opposed to 'I will punch you.'

Wash didn't like it.


	126. Chapter 117: The Many Mental Issues

**Chapter One Hundred And Seventeen: The Many Mental Issues Of Murderers**

Over the next couple of weeks, Doc went through a list of inmates and, in alphabetical order, got them to come up to his new office so that he could evaluate their mental state and whether they needed any more counselling. He was nervous about getting started, sure. But he'd read through the entirety of 'Therapy For Dummies.' That had to count for something, didn't it?

Doc took some comfort in the fact that the other inmates wouldn't be as terrifying as O'Malley. At the very least, they probably wouldn't pin him to the wall and start biting.

Still, that didn't make the nervousness go away.

* * *

"I do not need help."

Doc tilted his head, watching Caboose bounce slightly on the sofa. "Um, Caboose... I got the impression from your medical files that you really do need help. Especially considering the amount of times you've attacked people. Or been around people who mysteriously got hurt when they were alone with you. And so on."

"Yes. I did many bad things. But I do not need help. Not right now."

"Are you sure?"

Caboose poked at the couch cushion curiously, a small smile on his face. "I feel okay. Because Muffin Man is there. And he is made of glue."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Muffin Man is made of glue."

Doc puzzled this over for a few moments before going, "Oh, do you mean Donut?"

"Yes."

"Caboose, my medical expertise might be... er... questionable. But I'm pretty sure Donut isn't made out of glue. Besides, okay implies that you could be doing better."

"It does not get much better than okay. Better than okay is not for bad people." Caboose looked around the room, eyeing the blankets that Doc had covered most surfaces with. "Can I make a fort?"

"A fort? Would it make you feel better than okay?"

"Maybe."

"...Okay."

* * *

Church did ask for help on something. But it wasn't exactly conventional therapy.

"So, if you smuggled in some cigarettes and alcohol then I could pay you back in a few days," Church said. He was sitting on Caboose's fort, which Doc had promised not to take down. "And if you kept helping me smuggle in shit then there'd be a pretty good black market going. Now that Wyoming's gone there's a huge demand for this sort of stuff. And you can't be getting paid that much, can you? This place is a shithole, I doubt they could afford much."

"Okay, first of all... I get paid enough. I even get overtime. I'm fine. And second of all... I can't bring in alcohol for you! I think it's illegal..." Doc mumbled, looking down at his notepad. He hadn't actually written anything useful down. All that was there was a picture he'd drawn of a cowboy.

"Probably. But you said you wanted to help me."

"I said I wanted to help you with therapy! Not by smuggling in alcohol and cigarettes! Those are both terrible for you, anyway! And alcohol makes people all violent..."

"Sure it does. But a fuckton of the guys in here are making alcohol anyway. Only difference is pruno tastes like orange juice and occasionally some dumbass doesn't make it right and it does weird things to the gut and makes people puke or die."

Doc nodded. "Yeah... I've seen that happen."

"Yeah. Trust me, everyone'll keep drinking regardless of if you say yes or no. But more sanitary liquor would help the prison loads, wouldn't it?"

"Well, when you put it that way... But I'm not smuggling cigarettes. And what if I get caught?"

"You won't unless you act suspicious and retarded. Just don't pull a York and you'll be fine. Deal?"

"Erm... okay. But can't I just smuggle in soft drinks?"

"Yeaaaaah no."

* * *

Looking at Donut was difficult. Doc kept seeing the dark hole in the side of Donut's head where his ear used to be, and guilt crawled around in his stomach like a drunk centipede whenever he caught a glimpse. So Doc kept his eyes fixed on his notepad.

"Um. So... uh. How's things?" Doc started lamely. He didn't really know where to start with Donut. He had ideas before Donut had actually walked in, but now he just kept thinking 'there is a hole in the side of his head and O'Malley put it there because of me.' Goshdarn it.

"What are you thinking?" Donut said suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"Why'd you come back? Wasn't O'Malley after you or something?"

"Erm. Who told you something that silly?" Doc mumbled. Donut rolled his eyes.

"Uh, the fact that he kept saying 'Doc' while he was... erm... getting all gropey... was a tipoff enough. I mean, seriously, why would you walk back into that? That's... just... are you insane?"

"Look, this session isn't about me. This is about you. If I need to talk about it then I'll get therapy outside of prison, alright?"

"You can talk about it now. I've got nothing better to do."

"You do too have things that you could be doing. You're supposed to be talking to me so I can help you."

"Oh. Right. Well, to start off with... these jumpsuits are still scratchy and slightly itchy. And I've used so much fabric softener on them! And also, they're super ugly. And don't even get me started on the colour palette. I mean, look at this." Donut gestured at his jumpsuit. "What is this? Autumn?"

"I actually meant the psychological stuff."

"Ah. Well, I keep having nightmares. But that's normal since the roomie thing. It got a little worse after O'Malley attacked me, but..." Donut reached up to touch where his ear used to be, frowning for a moment. But he shrugged it off. "I'm fine. Don't worry about it."

"You sure? Isn't that a symptom of that thing that war veterans get?"

"That post trauma thing where people have flashbacks?"

"That's the one."

"Dunno. Maybe. But I always thought that caused people to go into really huge flashbacks and start shooting everyone, like on the television. It's not a big problem. It's just... erm... uncomfortable. There's... other things, as well. But I don't think it's something you can help me with."

"I could try."

"It kinda concerns murderous rage."

"Oh." Doc tried to think of a solution while drawing a muffin wearing a party hat in his notepad. "Uh. Maybe yoga would help?"

"Already tried."

"Goshdarn it to heck."

Doc ended up signing Donut up for more therapy. Partly because Donut was one of the few so far showing symptoms that Doc actually recognised.

* * *

Grif was one of the few where Doc didn't have to fish around for subjects to concentrate on.

"I heard about Simmons."

"Yeah. So what?" Grif's voice was harsh and bitter.

"Well, for starters... I'm very sorry."

"Bullshit."

"And secondly... I'm here to help you with the grief."

"It won't help. What the fuck can you do? Say 'you'll get over it, you just need time' or some bullshit like that? Because even if that were true, time doesn't pass properly in here. Fucking groundhog day. The only time anything happens, it's a massive clusterfuck! So unless you have a ton of alcohol—"

"Not for a few days. ...I wasn't supposed to say that out loud."

"—a time machine or fruit from that magical Viking tree then you can't do shit."

"There's a whole section on grief counselling in my book. There has to be something that can help, right?"

Grif rested his face in his hands. "There won't be. Can't fix it. Just can't."

Doc started flicking through 'Therapy For Dummies.' "Uh, well... this says that you might start to get over it if you can find a resolution to it."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know. I guess... you need to find a way to resolve all the loose feelings and bad stuff?"

"There's nothing left to resolve. He's dead. And he wouldn't be if I hadn't been a fucking retard and dropped my wallet..." Grif's fingers twisted in his hair, tugging angrily. "I might as well have stabbed him myself."

"That's not—"

"Would have been better if I had. It would have been quicker." Grif looked up. He wasn't crying or anything. He just looked blank. "Simmons is dead. Guy who killed him is dead. Only one loose end in this. And that's me. I haven't found a way to deal with that yet. So don't try to fix this with fucking sympathy and second-hand therapy books. Unless you have a time travelling machine or a fucking Necronomicon, there isn't anything you can do."

Doc didn't manage to help Grif during that therapy session. But he did scribble down a note for whoever patrolled the cell blocks to keep an eye on him. And to schedule more therapy sessions once Doc figured out what he was supposed to do to help.

* * *

"You don't want to hear about it, Doc. It's dark stuff. Like, super dark stuff. Like inside of a chimney dark," Tucker said, nodding seriously. "That's not just a metaphor, either. I used to hide in the chimney a lot. It was warm and that way I could hide from my old lady. Or any of her johns. Or any abusive relatives. I had some really creepy uncles. I think they were uncles. They might have just been johns that were at home a lot."

"I see... Bad home life?"

"Fuck yeah it was bad. My mother was a drunk prostitute. And you have no idea how often I walked in on one of her johns hammering her into the couch. It was gross. So I'd try hiding in the chimney, but I could still hear them going at it. Always kinda sounded like a cat and dog having heart attacks. And sometimes various uncles would yell and throw things at me even when it wasn't awkward to stay in the open, so I spent a lot of time outside.

"I was always really hungry, because when I was that young I didn't know how to cook and the old lady had a habit of setting the kitchen on fire. So I ended up using my general cuteness to convince random strangers to give me food. Seriously, I was a really adorable kid. Anyway, that's how I started conning.

"So, then I ran away at the young age of sixteen. Had to become a prostitute to keep myself going. I mean, it was kinda the only job I'd seen up close. And all the customers were fat old guys. It was disgusting. And they were really fetishy, so I always had to wear skirts. Until this cross dressing chick said 'hey, you can help with these cons instead.' I mean, wouldn't you jump out of being an underage prostitute as soon as possible? I'm a victim of society, man."

Doc blinked a couple of times before putting down his notepad and picking up the files he had on Tucker. "Uh. Okay, not to call you a liar or anything... but your records say that the cross dressing was specifically for a con. According to the person that the blackmail pictures were found with, anyway."

"Aw, fucking C.T. Nuts to her, she's a liar and a kidnapper. I mean, who you gonna believe? A piece of paper and a cross-dressing bitch? Or a blind guy?"

"...I don't think being blind has anything to do with truth."

"Doesn't it, Doc? Doesn't it? Quit being racist towards blind guys. Quit being blindist."

"Sorry."

* * *

Once everyone was gone, Doc sat there with a notepad filled with nothing but little drawings and a few scattered, vague notes.

'Therapy For Dummies' hadn't helped much.


	127. Chapter 118: Drowning Sorrows

**Chapter One Hundred And Eighteen: Drowning Sorrows**

It was easy to get Donut to leave him alone once he figured out how. Grif just had to pretend he was asleep. Then he didn't get those pity glances and all those 'are you doing alright' and 'do you want me to get you anything that isn't booze' bits of garbage.

But that only worked with Donut. It didn't work with Caboose.

"ARE YOU AWAKE, GRUF?!"

"Fuck off!"

"That is... a no?" Caboose walked into the cell and plopped onto the end of his cot. "You are sad."

"I'm fine."_ Lies. _"So fuck off and let me sleep! I'd be a lot happier if fucktards like you stopped wandering in and annoying me!"

"I do not believe you."

Grif tried to make him go away by glaring. But Caboose was ridiculously good at any form of staring. Grif's glare didn't seem to bother him, he just blinked and tilted his head like he was trying to understand what Grif was doing.

Caboose eventually got to his feet and trotted out. Grif rolled over and went back to pretending to be asleep.

This worked for about thirty seconds. Then Caboose returned, pounced and hugged him from behind.

"Sneak hug! It will make you feel warm!"

"FUCK OFF, RETARD." Grif swatted at Caboose angrily, smacking him in the face. Caboose just blinked again, pouted and left.

"Major Éclair... hugging didn't work," he heard Caboose say quietly. "He hit me and called me a rude name. Did I hug wrong?"

Grif looked up briefly to see Donut looking at him from his cell. Grif quickly looked down again and pretended to be asleep, even though Donut probably wasn't fooled at the moment.

"Just... just leave him alone, alright?" he heard Donut mutter.

For hitting Caboose in the face, Donut would normally have at least lectured him. _Dammit, fruitcake. I'm not a delicate china doll. Stop treating me like it, you little bitch. At least leave the cell block for a while. _

Maybe the universe though it had been cruel enough for the moment and decided to give him a tiny break. Because only a few minutes later Grif heard footsteps. And then York's voice.

"Hey, Donut. Phone call for you. It's your mother."

"Oh? Which one?"

"Erm. Forgot to ask. Come on."

"Okay."

Grif heard Donut's footsteps fade, along with York's. Once they had faded, he jumped off the bed and started rummaging around under it.

For the last couple of weeks, he'd been both making his own pruno and trying to bargain every little bit of alcohol that he could off the other inmates. He'd traded away half of the stuff that he'd accumulated in his cell over the years for it all, but finally he had enough to either put him in a coma or just kill him outright.

Either one would be great.

Grif picked up one of the bags of pruno. He didn't bother finding a cup. He just ended up drinking out of the bag, even though there were still disgusting lumps of orange and of the bread crumbs he'd used to get enough yeast. Who cared. It was still alcohol.

He attempted to chug his way through the entire bag as quickly as possible. Ten tumblers worth. Five would have been enough to make most somewhat drunk. Ten even had an effect on Grif, whose tolerance for the stuff was near superhuman. By the time he was three quarters through it, the room was starting to spin a little. Not nearly enough, though.

As he drained the last of the first bag, he felt someone watching him. He looked up to see Caboose there. Again. Just watching.

"What the fuck do you want now?" Grif hiccuped.

"Nothing."

Grif snorted before picking up another bag. This one was tinier. Only about two tumblers. He'd got those two tumblers from Andy. He hadn't actually asked, he'd just stolen it from his cell. Small bag, but it was white lightning. It'd be enough to get him well and truly pissed.

He turned away from Caboose so he wouldn't have to see that ridiculous staring. But when he turned around, his eyes immediately landed on the stack of photos he'd taken from Simmons' cell. He moved over to the pictures and started looking at them again.

He'd been doing that since cleaning Simmons' cell up. He kept picking up the pictures and looking through them, like one of them would just spontaneously turn into a time machine and take him back to when the photos were taken. Or even better yet... take him back to before he ever met Simmons. Then he would never go to Simmons' apartment looking for a place to live. They would have never met and this would have been so much simpler.

Grif spent a long while staring at the photos. The next half-an-hour passed in a haze. The white lightning was drunk much more slowly than the bag of lumpy crap he'd first downed. But eventually it was all gone. Pity. That stuff had been good. Burned in the good way. He was well and truly shitfaced now. He could barely manage to turn around without falling over. So instead he just flopped onto his stomach before reaching out for the third bag.

It wasn't there. Nor was the rest of it. The pruno was gone.

Grif's first thought, which came extremely slowly to him, was that Donut had taken it. That motherly fucker. No, Grif, drinking yourself into a coma is bad for you. No fucking shit, Donut!

But Donut wasn't back from his phone call. And he wouldn't have been quiet about taking it. Maybe it'd been Church or Tucker. Maybe they'd just wanted to get shitfaced. But no. They stayed away from him nowadays. They knew when not to get involved.

That left one guy.

"Caboose! You... you fucker!" Grif clambered to his feet unsteadily and stumbled towards Caboose's cell. "Did you steal my booze?!"

He didn't really have to ask. The two empty pruno bags were evidence enough. A strong smell of rotten oranges was coming from the toilet in the cell, indicating that Caboose had tried to flush some of it.

But that clearly hadn't worked well. Because Caboose was even more unsteady on his feet as Grif was. And holding the third bag, which was half empty.

"No. No, I did not," Caboose said slowly.

"Fucking liar! Give me back my stuff!"

"No. S'bad for you. Tried to throw it away. Stupid... stupid toilet is broken. Again. Bad time. But you... you cannot drink what is... drunk. Drinken. Drunken. You cannot drink drunk things." Caboose took a gulp of the pruno and gagged. "How do you drink it? It tastes like butt. Crumbly, orange butt."

"Yeah, it does! So give it back! Half a bag is still enough to knock me out!" Grif tried to snatch it out of Caboose's hand, but lost his balance and fell over.

"No. No knocking out. S'bad."

"What the fuck do you care?"

"I do not."

"Then give it!"

"Major Eclair cares. And I do not want him to be sad. And he will be sad as long as you are sad. And you are trying to make comas. Comas are bad. They hurt and it is boring and hard to breathe." Grif made another lunge for the bag, but Caboose held it out of Grif's reach. When Grif went offbalance again and struggled not to fall over, Caboose quickly took another few gulps. He couldn't keep this up. He was having trouble just standing it and he was bright red in the face.

"You're gonna put yourself in a coma if you keep drinking my shit. Either from drinking too much or from me punching you in the face! Now give it!"

"No."

"Dammit. Why can't you annoy someone else?! Like Church or Donut or—"

"Church?" Caboose frowned. "Church..." He stood still for a few moments. It was long enough for Grif to grab the bag out of his hands.

"Ha. Fuck you."

Caboose ignored him. He was looking in the direction of Church's cell. He seemed to have already forgotten about the pruno fight.

"...I need to... do... something..." Caboose lurched out of the room and towards Church's cell. Leaving Grif by himself once again.

Grif stared down at the remaining pruno. Maybe a couple of tumblers left. That would have been fine if it were white lightning, but not for grade-F piss like this. It was only good in mass and there was nowhere near enough left to put him in a coma.

He didn't even bother to leave Caboose's cell. He just slid down the wall and sat there, drinking what was left. The universe hadn't given him a break, after all. It just had to kick him in the balls again. Couldn't it at least kick him in the head, instead? That would probably knock him out for a few hours, at least.

* * *

Church was lying on his cot, not really doing anything. Tucker had wandered off to attempt to find his way from one end of the cell block to the other with just the feel of his hands. The prison hadn't given him one of those blind guy canes, so he had to resort to using his hands. Church was just hoping no-one decided to attack Tucker while he was wandering around. He'd offered to go with, but Tucker said that he needed a break from the awkward silence.

As he gazed at the cracks at the ceiling, he heard a voice.

"You... you are stupid."

Church blinked and sat up. There were many things he never expected to hear. And Caboose telling him that he was stupid was just under Donut declaring he was straight.

"What?"

"You... you heard me," Caboose slurred. Was he drunk? Oh god, who let him near alcohol? That was something Church had always made sure to keep him away from.

"Yeah, I heard you, but... what?"

"I... I was your bestest buddy! I broke fingers for you! Fingers!" Caboose waved his own fingers around to emphasise and almost fell over when he did so. "I would have... I would have done so many things for you. Bad things! Because I thought you were the good guy and that you were the smartest guy ever and that you were always right."

"Hey, compared to you I'm a fucking genius."

"I know! I am... I am not good with... thought makey things. But you... you are almost as stupid sometimes!"

"Seriously?"

"Yes. You... you were all tonguey with Tucker."

"There was no tongue!" Church snapped.

"And that is stupid. Because Tucker is mean and a slut and a liar and I do not like him."

"Okay, is this going to be a repeat of that time when you accidentally called Tex a slut?"

"No. This is... this is on purpose. But that is not what I meant to talk about!" Caboose went quiet for a couple of minutes, then, because he got distracted by a fly that was buzzing around the ceiling. His attention wasn't great at the best of times, the alcohol couldn't have helped. Eventually he remembered what he was ranting about. "He shoved you. He hurt you. And I was just trying to help you. And you... you were all shouty and mean. And you yelled about... about Mama. Even though... even though you were the one that told me it did not happen. You made me believe that! And... and you should not be able to shout at me for what I did to Mama. You killed your papa. And your little brother. You should yell at yourself, as well."

Church was briefly tempted to yell back about how he'd at least killed his father for a reason, and that he'd never killed Eddie at all. But he held his tongue. It would just be stupid to tell Caboose the truth. He'd never keep it a secret. Instead, Church just said, "Do you have a point somewhere in this crap?"

"Yes. Tucker will be bad for you. He is a liar. And you could have... I could have protected you. But... you made bad mistakes. And you yelled at me and lied and then unlied and then lied again during the riot just so I would help stupid Tucker... and Major Éclair might have lied sometimes but he is a lot more... unlying than you were... and I just..." Caboose blinked a few times. Struggling with his words again. Though Church got the feeling that this time it wasn't simply because he'd forgotten the words. "I just wanted to say that I will not do it anymore. It is... it is finished."

"Big loss."

"And... and also..." Caboose paused for a few seconds before covering his mouth. "My stomach feels like old oranges."

"Okay, how much did you drink?"

"Um. Almost... two."

"Two tumblers? Fucking lightweight."

"No. Two... two bags."

"Bags?! You drank two bags? Full-sized bags? Why aren't you dead?!"

"I... I do not..." Caboose trailed off. And then he doubled over, retched and threw up on the floor.

"Oh, gross." Church sighed and climbed off his cot. He stepped over the puddle of puke. "Okay, you really need to go to the infirmary. Can you walk there by yourself?"

"I can... I can walk just..." Caboose attempted to walk and almost fell over after just a couple of steps. Church slapped his forehead.

"Okay. I'll help you get there. But only because I don't want you throwing up all over my cell."

"Yeah... I know that is why..."

Church grabbed Caboose's forearm and started to half-drag him towards the infirmary. He didn't help Caboose entirely out of a desire to see his cell puke-free. Caboose did have a bit of a point. Church had probably jerked him around a lot more than he should have. It was amazing that it had taken Caboose so long to wise up to it.

But he definitely didn't feel guilty. Not at all. Not even a little. Okay, maybe a little. But just a little. Only because it was like lying to a five-year-old. And because Caboose's ramblings about Church being the smartest ever and always right had reminded him a little of when Eddie was a little kid. Church had fucked up numerous times back then. What with getting them mixed up in crime and all. And Eddie had never doubted him for a second because of that exact reason, even when he was older.

Apparently Church hadn't learned much in the last fifteen years. The only difference was that the person he was unintentionally (most of the time) fucking up this time around wasn't related to him.


	128. Chapter 119: About Fucking Time

**Chapter One Hundred And Nineteen: About Fucking Time**

After assuring a stern and somewhat worried Sheila that Caboose drinking two bags of fermented orange juice wasn't a regular occurrence, Church returned to the cells. He returned without any shoes, as Caboose had thrown up on them. It reminded Church of why he never did nice things. It always ended with ruined shoes.

As he looked around for someone he could blackmail into giving him their boots, he found Tucker sitting in some random inmates' cell.

"Tucker? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Uh, waiting for you to get back, dumbass."

"You realise this isn't my cell, right? Or yours?"

Tucker frowned, got to his feet and started feeling the walls. "Dammit. I knew something was off. But I thought I had it this time."

Church rolled his eyes. "Come on. You're not even in the right block." He grabbed Tucker's arm and steered him out.

"Why aren't you wearing any shoes?" Tucker asked.

"How'd you even know?"

"Dude, your footsteps are too quiet. It's kinda obvious. What else am I supposed to pay attention to?"

"Oh. Caboose threw up on them. Someone gave him two bags of pruno. Also, he says you are a liar and a slut and a horrible influence and so on. Just warning you in case he comes back while wasted."

"Well, can't exactly argue with it," Tucker said cheerfully.

"Yeah..."

When they got close to their cells, they saw York standing in front of Church's cell, holding a mop and attempting to clean up the mess Caboose had made. York looked up as they approached.

"Hey." York raised the mop and used the handle to block Church and Tucker's way. "What'd you do, drink your own body weight?"

"Wasn't me."

"Eh, never mind. I wouldn't go in your cell at the moment, Church. Unless you want to mop up?" York said hopefully.

"Fuck no."

"Lame. I mean, technically, I'm allowed to order you to do it, but then you'll give me that look and suddenly the other inmates will be out for my blood."

"Hey, I'm not that petty." When York opened his mouth, Church added quickly, "Still ain't mopping."

"Well, can you at least hold my mop? I need to find some more paper towels."

"Uhhh..."

"Thank you." York handed Church the mop before running off to look for paper towels. Church shook his head before turning around and steering Tucker into his cell.

"Okay, I gotta stay here. My cell's all sticky," Church grumbled.

"I know. I was there, dumbass. I can still hear," Tucker said. He felt his way towards the cot and flopped down on it. Church just stood in the corner, holding North's mop. And the awkward silence immediately returned.

...

...

...

"Uh..." Church mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Then why'd you go 'uhhh'?"

"I'm just thinking, alright? Shut the fuck up."

"I was until you started making noises!"

"Well, fine. I'll stop!"

"Good!"

"Fine!"

"What the fuck are we yelling about?!"

"I don't know!"

Tucker sat up, rubbing the side of his head. "Shit. It's the fucking elephant."

"What?"

"The elephant. The elephant in the room. The big, awkward thing that we're not talking about. Which is just making everything else even more awkward."

If Tucker had eyes, he'd probably be staring rather intensely at Church. But Church was still gonna deny everything. He didn't want to go through another bitchfest.

"There's no fucking elephants."

"Yes, there is!" Tucker snapped. "Don't bullshit me, Church. There's an elephant sitting in the corner. A giant, ceramic elephant with rainbows painted all over it and covered in glitter. A giant homo elephant."

"That's stupid."

"It's not stupid! And it's your fault it's there in the first place!"

"Is not! You're the one imagining things!"

"Oh yeah, sure. I just imagined you shoving your tongue down my throat!"

"There was no tongue!" Church yelled. "Why does everyone keep saying there was?"

"Besides, whenever you grab my wrist for some reason you always go 'this isn't gay.' Plus, you look at dinosaurs and see dildoes!"

"Hey, that particular dinosaur just happens to look like a dildo, alright? That has nothing to do with anything! And I'm not gay, alright? I dated Tex, didn't I?"

"Yeah, so? Maybe she was just your beard."

"Look, if I'd wanted a beard I would have chosen someone who wasn't a cop. Besides, you're the one who bangs guys."

"I called no homo. Besides, I was on the top and it's not gay unless you touch the weiners. I just take what I can get, alright? I'm not a freak of nature like you, I can't go twenty years without sex."

"This is the stupidest conversation I've heard for ages... and it is ending right now."

"There's still a giant, gay elephant in the corner!"

"No, there isn't!"

Naturally, York chose that moment to return for his mop, and he added, "Giant, gay elephants? ...I can kinda see it."

"This isn't your fucking business, York!"

"Whoa, easy. Just gimme my mop back and I'll be on my way." Church handed it to him and York went back to cleaning up the mess. Church turned back to Tucker.

"Fine, Tucker. Say, hypothetically, that there is a 'gay elephant' in the room," Church said, sketching quotation marks in the air with his fingers. "So what? You called no homo. So if we talk about it, it'll just end up with another screaming match. There will be shoving and yelling, we'll storm off without talking to each other and the entire bitchfest will start all over again."

"We're dissolving into arguments anyway! Just because one of us said 'uh.'"

"You started that fight."

"I know, but... come on, you're an angry douchebag. You would have gotten pissed off at something stupid soon, anyway."

"Guilty as charged. What's the big deal? So things are a little awkward? That's not the end of the world."

"Easy for you to say," Tucker muttered bitterly. "Do you know how hard it is to hang around you with this awkwardness? And I kinda need—uh, never mind."

"What?"

"Never mind!"

"You brought up this stupid conversation! You can't just end it like that. What? You need what, Tucker?"

"I... Look. This being blind thing is fucking me up, alright? It's, like... it's not like being in the dark. It's not the same as that. It's like... you know when you hear something behind you and you can't look around for some reason? It's like that. But for everything. I know things are there, but I can't see it and it freaks the hell out of me. I... I never know who's there. Who isn't there. I can never quite figure out where I am. And it scares the hell out of me."

"...You never look scared."

"Of course not, man! I'm a con artist, I'm used to bullshitting my way through things. But it does. It's terrifying. But... but when you're there, I... uh..." Tucker rubbed his forehead. He'd gone a little bit pink. Just a little. "No homo or anything, but... things make more sense when you're there. When you're around, I know I can't literally see you... but it feels like I can. You're the one thing in this dump that I can clearly picture. And... and I need that. You have no idea how badly I need that. I can't lose it just because... just because of some stupid gay elephant making things awkward."

Silence.

"Crap, there it is again. The fucking awkward silence. I knew that'd happen if I mentioned it."

"Uh. Sorry. Didn't know what to say to it."

Church moved across the cell and sat down next to Tucker on the cot. "So... so what, then? What do we do?"

"Well... I guess I couldn't get you to focus the weird, gay feelings on some other inmate, could I?"

"No. I'm not gay."

"Then what the hell is with this?"

"I don't fucking know. It's not all guys, alright? It's... it's pretty much just you. Don't ask me why, because I don't know," Church grumbled. "Hell, I would have thought I had better taste."

"Better taste? What do you mean, 'better?' I am the best-tasting guy in this—okay, fuck it, we can debate that later, that was getting weird... Anyway... well, there ain't really any girls I can set you up with, either. The only ones around are your ex-girlfriend, South and Sheila. The first two being half-sharks and the last one being married... yeah, there'd be problems."

Church grunted in agreement.

"So... I can't really think of any way to get your attention elsewhere, so..." Tucker rubbed his forehead and groaned. "I can't believe I'm about to suggest this... but I guess... I guess we could... give it a try?"

"Are you actually serious, or is this a stupid joke?"

"Well. It'll be awkward as well, I guess. But I figure... I figure that either we get over the awkwardness by... you know. Or we figure out that it doesn't work and go back to the old awkwardness. Either way, we won't end up any worse."

"Unless it ends messily," Church mumbled.

"Yeah. But hey, if we can get past the whole awkward gay thing in the first place... it can't get too much worse from there, can it?" Tucker shrugged. "I don't really know... I just can't think of anything else. I'm seriously shooting in the dark here."

"You're going to use your blindness to pretend I'm a chick, aren't you?"

"Yeah, it took getting blinded to get over how ugly you are," Tucker said, grinning.

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you, too." Tucker's grin faded quickly, though.

They stared at each other. Well, Church stared at Tucker. Tucker just faced his direction. Church didn't know how to start this. He reached forward, but his hand kinda hovered a few inches from Tucker. What the fuck did he do? It hadn't been this difficult with Tex. Had it? They'd been pretty drunk the first time they did anything.

"Alright. Alright, then..." Church muttered.

"Alright," Tucker repeated quietly.

Neither of them moved, though. Sure, Church had kissed Tucker once before. But that had been quick and spur-the-moment. Plus, he'd known how it was gonna end. Namely, with Tucker extremely pissed off at him. What the hell was going to happen this time? Church jammed up, his fingers still hovering inches from Tucker, unsure as to what to do.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Sensing the vague movement, Tucker reached out and tried to figure out what Church was doing. He located Church's hand. "How long has that been hovering there? You wussing out?"

"No! Just... uh... something."

"You girl."

"I don't see you moving forward."

"Okay... okay, uh... fine, I guess I'll just, uh..." Tucker leaned forward. Church shifted a bit closer. But then they came to a halt again. After a few seconds of closing and unclosing his hand nervously, Church reached forward to touch Tucker's face. His fingers traced the old scar that O'Malley had left there. Then he reached out with his other hand, grasped Tucker's arm and tugged him forward.

They hovered uncomfortably for a few seconds, inches from each other, before Tucker muttered, "Fuck this," and closed the distance, pressing his lips against Church's.

It was warm. Church shouldn't have been surprised, but he just kept recalling the bad dreams where Tucker looked dead and felt icy cold.

It only lasted a few seconds before they heard Donut say, "About time."

They jumped back from each other.

"Dye-Job! What the fuck?!" Church yelped. "How long have you been there?"

"Uh. Ten seconds? Good timing, I suppose," Donut said, peering through the bars. "Honestly, I'm just kinda surprised you addressed the giant, glittery elephant in the corner."

"Told you it was there," Tucker muttered.

"Whatever. Fuck off, Dye-Job!"

"Fine. Don't wanna talk to you, anyway."

"Are they getting it on in there? Tell them to put a sock on the door," they heard North call out as Donut left.

"Well... that was weird," Tucker muttered.

"What? The kiss or Donut walking in?"

"Erm. Both. The whole thing was..."

"Awkward."

"Yeah." There was only a tiny stretch of silence before Tucker grinned and said, "Could have been worse, I guess."

"Yeah. You didn't shove me this time."


	129. Chapter 120: Between Sickness & Hangover

**Chapter One Hundred And Twenty: Between Sickness and Hangovers**

Grif had been curled up on the ground of Caboose's cell, half-asleep, when he felt someone nudge him with their foot.

"Pruno isn't going to help, Grif... and why are you in Caboose's cell?"

Grif looked up at Donut, who stood over him with his arms crossed, before flopping onto his other side and flapping his hand slightly.

"Fuck off, Donut."

"How much did you drink?"

"Er. One and a bit bags. Plus, a couple of tumblers of white lightning. Not enough. You got any more?"

"Grif! You... urgh, I leave for less than an hour and this happens? I... urgh..." Donut rubbed his forehead. "I told Caboose to keep an eye on you while I was gone... where'd he go?"

"Fuckin' retard stole the rest of my pruno. Flushed some. Drank most of it. Then he wandered off to yell at someone, what do I know? I'm not his babysitter. And I don't need one, either."

"Oh god, that's... that's not good." Donut turned away from Grif for a few moments, still rubbing his forehead. "Um... okay. I... I guess, uh... you feel alright?"

"I'd feel even better if he hadn't taken my booze. Seriously, you got any more?"

"No..." Donut turned back to Grif, gazing down at him. "Okay... so, you're not feeling sick? You don't need to go to the infirmary?"

"Fuck no."

"Then... then I'm going to help you back to your cell. You can sleep it off, alright?"

"Seriously, just a few more tumblers and I'll be able to fall asleep. Just a few more," Grif insisted as Donut knelt and slung Grif's arm over his shoulders. "Just a few more, come on. You can get it from someone."

"Can you stand?"

"Fuck off, I'm not standing."

"Grif... please just use your damn feet." There was an edge in Donut's voice that Grif didn't hear much. But Grif still refused.

"No."

"Crap." Donut tried to pull Grif to his feet. "Huuuurgh. God, how much do you weight? A bajillion pounds?"

That grumpy remark reminded Grif far too much of something Simmons would say when he was annoyed at him. For a moment, it made him want to cry. But then it made him feel weird. It filled the empty black space inside him for just a brief moment. But once the moment was gone he felt emptier than ever.

"So, you gonna start calling me a fatass?"

"Well, lying on the floor drinking fermented orange juice isn't going to help your weight. Huuuurgh." Donut tugged again and managed to pull Grif into a proper sitting position. "Can you please just get up?"

"What are you gonna do? Call me more names?"

"Would that get you on your feet?"

"No. This slab of concrete is more comfy than the others."

Donut sighed. "You can't just live on Caboose's cell floor."

"Why the fuck not? Go away."

Donut didn't go away. He just persisted in trying to drag Grif to his feet. He somehow managed it after a few attempts and a bit of cursing.

"Huuuuurrrrgh—okay! Now come on."

He dragged Grif out of Caboose's cell and down the corridor. Once he reached Grif's cell, he guided Grif to his cot and made him lie down.

"Um. Okay... uh, where's the sheets..." Donut looked around the cell for a few moments, before his eyes landed on the photos that Grif had left lying on his footlocker. Donut took a few steps towards them.

"Don't touch them," Grif growled. "Just go away."

Donut stepped away from the photos again. Instead, he picked up Grif's sheet and threw it over him, tucking him in like he was five fucking years old. Grif wanted to scream at him for it, but the booze had made him pretty dizzy and he really did want to fall asleep. Even if it wasn't a coma like he wanted.

Donut kept trying to fluff up the sheets, although it didn't do any good. Motherly fucker.

"Look, I... I need to find Caboose, make sure he's not doing anything stupid. And then I'll be back. Please... please don't be a dumbass while I'm gone, alright?"

Simmons used to call him a dumbass more than he used his actual name, sometimes. Again, there was a brief flare of warmth before he felt worse than before.

Once Donut was gone, Grif couldn't be bothered to do anything, anyway. No point. He just stayed curled up and stared at the wall, while various insults that Simmons had once flung at him bounced around in his head.

* * *

"It's quite surprising you didn't kill yourself, with that amount of alcohol. Especially for a first timer. Erm, was that the first time?"

"Yes," Caboose groaned. He wasn't throwing up any more, but his stomach still felt gross. "Although... once Dad gave me some beer, when I was sixteen."

Sheila raised an eyebrow. "Did he, now?"

"Yes. It was for a party. But that was before I was stupid. There were no parties after I was stupid."

"Well, I'll keep you here for a while. See how you do. If you get better, I'll let you go back."

Caboose nodded, still clutching the bucket. As he did, he heard footsteps outside. The door opened. Donut was there.

"Church said you were here. You alright?" Donut asked, quickly crossing the room. He moved to give Caboose a quick hug, but stepped back when he caught the smell of pruno. "Ew, gross."

"I do not like prison juice," Caboose mumbled.

"Well, it's okay in small doses. Grif just went a little overboard this time."

Sheila frowned, looking up from the paperwork she'd been doing. "Grif? Is that his last name?"

"Oh. Yeah. Uh, are you going to tell the warden he was drinking?" Donut asked. "Please don't. He'll get thrown in solitary and it'll be really hard for me to keep an eye on him... He didn't mean to give Caboose so much. By the way, Caboose... when I ask you to make sure Grif doesn't drink, don't try to stop that by drinking his booze. You'll just hurt yourself."

"I am sorry."

"It's okay."

Sheila was still frowning. After a few moments, she climbed to her feet and went to the back of the infirmary, where she kept the patient files. Meanwhile, Donut sat down next to Caboose on the cot.

"I'll stay here for a while before checking on Grif again. I think he was going to sleep, anyway. That alright with you?"

"Yes, Muffin Man."

Donut still had his nose wrinkled from the icky smell, but he clung to Caboose's arm tightly. He felt slightly shaky. Or maybe Caboose was still wobbling around, and so it just felt like Donut was shaky. But Caboose was pretty sure it was Donut.

Caboose leaned forward, ignoring the wave of nausea as he did so, to try and look properly at Donut's face.

"Are you feeling sad, Private Biscuit?"

"What?"

"You look sad."

"Oh." Donut smiled at him. It was a very fake smile, though. Like the kind Church makes when he is being sarcastically happy. "Sorry. This better?"

"No. It is worse."

"Ahhh." The smile fell off again. "Sorry. Just... I was just thinking about things."

"Did I make you sad? Did I do something wrong again? I do that a lot."

"No, no, no. You're not making me sad. And at least you're being cooperative about letting me help you," Donut said. There was a little smile then, but it was a sad one. And again, it quickly vanished.

Caboose frowned and reached out to touch Donut's face. Donut didn't flinch from the contact, he just closed his eyes. Caboose pet his face for a couple of moments before talking.

"Being sad does not suit you. You should be smiley. Everything feels happier when you are smiley."

"That's sweet. But I'm just not in a smiling mood."

"Can I make you smiley?" He reached out with his other hand and tried to pull Donut's cheeks up to make it look like he was smiling. "Is there anything I can do to help? Because you are always the one making me happy and I want you to be smiley."

Donut didn't reply. He just clung to Caboose's arm tighter and snuggled into his shoulder.

That was not a yes. But Caboose could still find a way to try.

Sheila came back a couple of minutes later, holding one of the folders from the boxes that had all the medical information. She sat down at her desk again, reading through the pages. Donut raised his head a little, watching.

"Why are you reading Grif's files?"

"Just checking some information," Sheila muttered. "And reflecting on how small a world it is."

"Small world? I don't get it."

"Doesn't matter. It's unimportant."

* * *

Sarge hammered rather violently at Doc's door. "Oi! Hippy! Open the door!"

"Calm down, don't be so loud. Or violent. The door doesn't deserve that," Doc said quietly, opening the door. "Also, I'm not a hippy."

"Son, you're a pacifist and you like yoga. That makes you both a hippy and an unmanly influence on this prison. But that ain't the problem here."

"Oh. Sorry. What's the problem?"

"You ain't interviewed none of the staff yet."

"You mean for mental problems?"

"I don't mean for television shows, beatnik."

"I just assumed that they'd all been interviewed before being hired. It seems silly to hire people without checking their history or analyzing their behaviour." Though even as Doc said this, his mind jumped to Wash. He'd heard many rumours about Wash being insane, and even though Doc thought the rumours were a little exaggerated, he didn't disbelieve them entirely.

"We've been short on staff often during the last decade. We didn't always have time to study them under a microscope. Now you get the privilege of doing so, gypsy."

"Oh. Well, I suppose it makes sense. Although... it might just be better for them to get evaluated on the outside."

"Are you gonna do your job or not, nature freak?"

"Okay, okay. I'll do my job."

"Great. It starts right now." Sarge crossed the room and flopped down onto the sofa. "Now, basically you have to sit there and listen to whatever I say, don't you?"

"Um. Sure."

"Excellent."

What followed was an hour of ranting about the people who'd decided he was unfit to be a warden anymore, his wife making him sleep in the garage last night because he'd come in smelling like whiskey again, the establishment, the fact that there weren't enough wars nowadays, the colour blue, Flowers and about how he couldn't order pina coladas and other various fruit-flavoured drinks without being considered queer.

Once he was done, he said, "Well, yippie? How do I rate on the insanity scale? Pretty good, I bet?"

"Well... I don't want to be rude, but you do seem to have some anger issues and an obsession with the colour blue."

"I think I need to repeat myself. How did I rate on the insanity scale?"

"...Good. No anger issues or unhealthy obsessions with colour shades at all."

"Damn right."


	130. Chapter 121: Flag Theft

**Chapter One Hundred And Twenty-One: Flag Theft**

"Wash. What the hell are you doing?"

York stood in the currently empty yard. It was too early for any inmates to be out, they were probably going through roll call at the moment. He was still half-asleep and wishing for coffee. It was far too early to be wondering about Wash's weird behavior.

Like why he was currently standing on top of a ladder and trying to pull the Red Flag down.

"What does it look like?"

"I don't know, I can barely see. It's too early."

"I'm just taking down the flag."

"Did Sarge say you could do that?"

"Who cares? He's pretty much fired." Wash was trying to tug down the flag, but Sarge had made sure the flag was difficult to get down, in order to stop those 'goddamn Blues' from stealing it. "Those crazy flag worshippers keep stirring up trouble. There was the Walter thing, the attack on Sheila and some other attacks. They cause problems. And it's all based around worshipping this stupid piece of fabric. I'm taking it down."

"Don't you think it might cause more problems? You're going to start a riot."

"Am not."

"Yes, you are. You're going to start a huge bloodbath," York muttered. "They'll probably start gutting anyone they deem 'blue' in order to make the flag come back. You're going to start a genocide, Wash. Do you want to start a genocide?"

"You're overreacting." Wash finally managed to pull down the flag and started climbing down the ladder.

"Look, if it was anyone else I'd agree. But those zealots are nuts."

"Yeah. I know. But it's worth a try. If they start acting up... well, there's only a few of them. Shouldn't be that hard to deal with."

"Where'd you even get a ladder?"

"I brought it here."

"Seriously? You brought your own ladder?"

"Explain how else I was supposed to get up there."

"I'll figure something out later. I need to find some coffee."

"Alright. But help me carry this ladder back to my car. Or hold the flag."

"I'm not holding the flag. If the zealots see me, they'll think I took it down. And you'd have a better chance at lying and convincing them that you're not kidnapping their god."

"Point taken. You can hold the ladder. It folds up."

They started walking back to the parking lot, York dragging the ladder behind him while Wash carried an armful of fabric that had the power to inspire people into psychotic rage.

"So, I hear Doc has been following you around lately."

"Mmhm."

"Didn't you kidnap him to bring him back here in the first place? Can you get Stockholm Syndrome from a kidnapping that only lasted half an hour?"

"I have no idea. I still think Stockholm Syndrome is a myth," Wash muttered. "In any case, I'm very close to hiding in the laundry room."

"Well, I hear he's gonna be interviewing the staff soon for mental deficiencies."

"Then I'm definitely hiding."

"Maybe you should go along with it. They might fire you if they can't judge your mental state."

"Like anyone in this prison really cares about Doc's judgement on these matters," Wash said. York shrugged.

"Well, can't argue there. But the next warden won't realise how incompetent he is, and then he'll probably look at your mental record and be very disturbed."

"I'm sane. Completely—"

"Completely and totally sane, yeah, I know. Doesn't mean you always were. I mean, first time we met you were really twitchy."

"You noticed that? I was trying to mug you at the time, why were you staring at my twitchiness?"

"When a gun is pointed at your face, you notice if the hand holding it is twitchy. Anyway... I'm just saying, you might want to at least bluff your way through some therapy."

Wash only grunted in reply. York couldn't figure out if it was an agreeable or disagreeable grunt.

"So... you want to go drinking later?"

Wash came to a brief halt, staring at him. "I thought we didn't do that anymore."

"No, I said not for a while. I'm okay with drinking with you at the moment. Unless you do something douchey."

"Fair enough."

They kept walking. Wash looked a little more cheerful. Even though for him that just meant moving from 'grumpy' to 'meh.'

* * *

As it turns out, Grif's pruno really was able to render people almost comatose. If only through the use of hangovers. Donut was having trouble dragging both Grif and Caboose out of their beds.

Why did it have to be the two heaviest guys in this row?

"Grif! Come on! Hrrrrgh! It's breakfast time!"

"Shut up. And not hungry."

"Yes, you are. You're Grif, you're always hungry. Now come on. Please?"

"Nngh." Grif just buried his face in his pillow in an effort to shut Donut out.

This time, Donut gave up fairly quickly. Getting Grif out of bed was tough most days. The hangover made it downright impossible. Grif didn't look like he was going to move, so hopefully it was safe to leave him alone for a little while. He had no more alcohol to attempt binge drinking into a coma, anyway.

It was just as futile a task to get Caboose out of bed. His first hangover was hitting him hard.

"I cannot see. Did Tucker steal my eyes?!" Caboose yelled, when Donut prodded him. "Ow! My voice is hurting me! It is still hurting me! Owowowow."

"Caboose, you're hungover. It just means you're not going to like bright light or noises until you feel better."

".So, Tucker did not steal my eyes?"

"Dude, I wish." Tucker had been feeling his way around the cells again, and was currently across from Caboose's cell, patting the walls. "I mean, if I had your eyes I could do that weirdly effective puppy eyes shit you do. And my ability to con people would just skyrocket."

Caboose whimpered a little and covered his eyes. "He is going to steal them. And I cannot hurt him to make him go away because that is a bad thing now."

"Caboose, hurting people was always bad. That didn't just start now. Dumbass," Tucker grumbled. Caboose made a noise of protest at the loud talking and threw a shoe in Tucker's direction. "Hey! I heard something clunk near me. Is he throwing things?"

"Shoes," Donut said.

"Jerk."

"Tractor," Caboose muttered. He pulled the blankets over his head. "I do not want to move."

"Yeah, hangovers are rough. But come on, it's breakfast time. I'll give you my orange juice."

"I do not want orange juice at the moment. It tastes like the alcamahol."

"Then I'll give you my cereal."

After a few seconds of consideration, Caboose pushed aside the blankets and climbed to his feet, although he was still wincing.

"Okay. Cereal is good."

"Great. So, if I leave you in the cafeteria you'll be fine, right?"

"Leave?"

"I have to make a phone call."

"Oh. Okay."

They walked off towards the cafeteria. On the way, they passed Sheila.

"Sheeeeeeeilaaaaaaa? Is that you? I cannot see that well. Everything is bright and hurty," Caboose said. "And talking is hurting me more."

"That's not surprising, Caboose. Have you learnt the consequences of drinking from that hangover?"

"Drinking is bad. I know. But it was to stop other people from coma-ing."

"Next time just hand the drink over to one of the guards."

"I did not think of that."

* * *

Grif still had his face buried in his pillow when he heard a voice.

"It really is a small world. I knew you went to prison, but I didn't think it was the same one."

Grif moved enough to see someone standing in the doorway. The figure was still blurry and hard for him to make out. All he could really tell was that it was a tall woman.

"Who the hell are you and what do you want?" Grif mumbled.

"I take it you don't recognise me. Reasonable enough. We only met once. Well, I saw you twice. Once when you came into the hospital, but you were unconscious at that time."

Hospital? The last time Grif had been in the hospital was the car accident that had stopped him from going on the run. Grif squinted at the figure in the doorway. Now that he focused on her, she did seem vaguely familiar. But his hungover brain wasn't turning up any answers.

"You're gonna have to help my memory along, lady."

"Very well. My name is Dr. Sheila Filss. I visited you once when you were conscious to tell you that you weren't receiving charges for—"

"Oh, yeah. I remember that. ...Wait, what are you doing in here? Am I hallucinating? Weird thing to hallucinate," Grif said. Sheila wasn't particularly annoying him like everyone else was, lately. Perhaps because she wasn't doing the pity stare or treating him like glass. It was a nice change.

"Like I said. It's a small world. I'm the prison doctor."

"Oh. Okay. Didn't realise it, you only called yourself Filss on the outside and everyone else has been calling you Sheila. So, what the hell did you want?"

"I'm simply here with a warning. Stop giving Caboose alcohol."

"What alcohol?" Grif automatically lied, although it was pretty useless lying about it. His cell stank like pruno.

"Don't pretend not to know. Donut mentioned it when he was in the infirmary."

"Fucking blabbermouth. Look, I didn't give Caboose any alcohol. That fucking douche stole it from me."

"Then don't leave it within his reach."

"Oh, so it's all my fault he's a fucking idiot who's stupid enough to drink that much alcohol, is it?"

"...Yes. It is."

"Bullshit. His mum probably dropped him on his head too many times as a kid, how am I supposed to control that?"

Sheila tilted her head, watching him for a few moments. "Oh, I see. Did no-one bring up the name of who you crashed into?"

"Nah, they said that was classified shit. I figured they thought 'oooh, a murderer, maybe he'll come after the kid next...'" Grif frowned, thinking. "Why is this relevant?"

"Well, it is your fault that Caboose is as mentally unstable as he is. So, it's your responsibility to do things like not damage him further."

Grif still didn't get it. What did this have to do with...

And then he recalled what little he remembered of the accident. He remembered climbing out of the car and staring at the pick-up truck that had plowed into a tree. He hadn't seen much. Just the back of the kid's head, mostly. But he'd seen blond hair, even though it'd been blood-soaked at the time.

"No fucking way."

"Is that enough to convince you to treat him a little more carefully? Or are you going to continue leaving damaging substances where he can reach them?" Sheila asked coldly.

"No, I'll... I'll keep them out of his reach."

"Good."

Once Sheila was gone, Grif rolled onto his back. Shit. All he'd known about the kid he plowed into was that he was in a coma for a while and the accident might have had some side effects. But now that he thought about it some, this made some of Caboose's behavior make so much more sense. And it also explained another reason why Caboose was so insistent about Grif not drinking himself into a coma. He'd know what a coma was like.

"Dudeee."

"Gah. How long have you been there?" Grif snapped, as Tucker appeared in front of the bars of his cell, grinning.

"Long enough. Heard it."

"So, what? You gonna blackmail me about it? That's what you do, isn't it?"

"Sure I do. But you don't really have anything I want. Besides, telling Caboose about something like that? I'm not that cold. Kid would fucking murder you. I mean, from what Church said, that accident really fucked him up. Hurt his brain, pretty much wrecked what he had with his family, led to the murders he did which got him locked up in here which led to even more murders..."

_Oh god. So I'm indirectly responsible for every murder Caboose ever did? Fantastic._

"So... he wouldn't react well, is what you're saying."

"Hell no. It's Caboose. He tried to kill me because I shoved Church once. He'd probably beat your face into the floor until it was a gross red smudge. Don't worry, I'm not gonna tell him about the accident thing for shits and giggles. I'm not O'Malley. I mean, maybe if you had something I really wanted, like a stack of porn magazines, then I might try blackmailing you about it, but... well. Not until then."

Tucker wandered off. Leaving Grif deep in thought.


	131. Chapter 122: Drawings

**Chapter One Hundred And Twenty-Two: Drawings**

Wash had been patrolling the yard when the zealots came out, carrying orange juice for their usual libations and stupid rituals that were performed in honor of that stupid piece of fabric. Wash watched from a distance as the zealots came to a halt halfway across the yard, gaping at the flagless pole.

They were silent for quite a few minutes. Like their minds just couldn't process what they were seeing. In their minds, it was probably the equivalent of someone stealing or destroying the Pietà. They crowded around the flagpole, staring upwards and clinging to their cups of orange juice.

And then they started shouting.

"Holy Flag, it's gone! His Flappiness has deserted us!"

"The Flag would never do that! This is the work of the blue devils!"

"It can't be! The flagpole is too tall and would repel any of the demons with its impressive shininess!"

"Then it's clearly punishment! We've done something wrong!"

"No, we haven't! Clearly the blue devils have learned to fly and ignore bright lights!"

"That's stupid! You're stupid!"

"Maybe it's a test of faith!"

"How does that work?"

"I don't knoooow!"

Had their leader still been around, they probably would have already unified into one stream of thought and decided on a course of action. Most likely something along the lines of 'kill all Blues' or 'throw orange juice at the flagpole to try and make the flag happy again.' However, with the Red Zealot dead, there seemed to be no leader among the flag-worshipping cult. And so they were now collapsing due to squabbling among themselves.

"Look! A gatekeeper! He might have some answers!" one of them yelled, pointing at Wash.

Well, shit. Wash briefly considered running, but Doc had started scheduling therapy for the guards and he wanted to make sure he had the energy to run and hide in a pile of laundry if Doc tried to drag him into it.

The zealots crowded around him. "Gatekeeper! Our holy flag, the most flappy of fabrics, is missing!"

"Yeah, I can see that. So?"

"So? So?! Someone has kidnapped His Holy Flappiness!"

"Yeah. Someone."

"Do you know who it was? As gatekeepers, you would have seen them pass through the gates! Who kidnapped our flappy lord?!"

"Well, if I had to guess... I would assume your 'flappy lord' left because you're all screw-ups."

"What?"

Wash was about to explain that flags don't require people to murder for them, but one of the other zealots spoke up first. "Guys! Guys! I think... I think I have the answer."

"Shut up, no-one cares what you think. Your ideas are always stupid. And the blue demons can't fly! If they could, they'd fly over the gates and the gatekeepers would be meaningless!"

"Hear me out. What if the flag is angry because we didn't finish something?"

"We did screw up a lot of things. Like failing to defend our leader," another muttered, looking depressed.

"Yes, but don't you remember the last thing he and the prophet ordered us to do?"

"Make shivs?"

"Find more orange juice?"

"No! During the riot! We were told to kill the cloth-washer!"

"Oh! Right!"

This was probably going in a bad direction. And the last thing Wash needed was for York to get pissy at him again because he accidentally caused more death. He was about to explain that he meant they'd screwed up by killing in the first place. Then he realized who they were referring to. Donut was the only inmate who washed clothes outside of the normal work hours.

He did keep meaning to put Donut to a proper test. See how he reacted. See if it really was just luck. The only time he'd left Donut in a situation like that, he'd been distracted just long enough to miss Donut biting off O'Malley's tongue.

So he held off from correcting them.

"But it's the cloth-washer. That's a sacred profession."

"But he is a cloth-washer who spends most of his time with the big blue devil. The anti-flag who stopped us from carrying out our duty against the cloth-washer in the first place."

"My nose still hurts from that..."

"Clearly, the cloth-washer is a traitor and the flag is trying to show us that!"

"Then we must decide on a plan to bring back the Flag's trust!"

Wash watched them run off, frowning a little. He should probably keep a close eye on them. He didn't want them to murder Donut. Just... maim him a little. At least until Wash could figure out how he kept surviving things that should have killed him.

* * *

Performing therapy on the guards wasn't difficult. On average, they were a lot saner than many of the inmates. Doc supposed this made sense. It was probably harder to get a job as a prison guard when you were obviously insane. On the other hand, that didn't explain Sarge or Wash. And Doc was living proof that the standards for working here weren't too high.

The therapy wasn't entirely uneventful, though. Like when he'd accidentally invited both Dakotas up at once and it had somehow devolved into North telling stories about South when she was a little kid.

"...and then she'd cry and cry and we'd have to get in the car, and Dad would drive us around the block until she went to sleep."

"North, shut up."

"Why? It's not anything embarrassing. If I'd told the stories about your emo phase in high school, then that would be embarrassing—"

"If you keep doing this, I'm going to show the whole prison pictures of you as a child wearing Mum's underwear on your head."

"Low blow, sis. Low blow."

Doc had barely been able to get a word in, and had quickly stopped trying. Instead, he had observed, nodded a lot and drawn some pictures of two kittens trying to grab the same ball of wool.

Then there was Flowers, who rather than being psychoanalyzed took the opportunity to talk to Doc about bonding more with the inmates.

"Male bonding is both fun and a very good way to build a sense of community and trust. As a therapist, you have to know how to encourage it."

"Um. Well, there's a lot of stuff in 'Therapy For Dummies' about building trust and stuff with the patient."

"No, no, no. Books cannot teach something like that. You have to be warm. And open. And not nervously twitching like a deer having a seizure. No offence."

"None taken."

"And it sounds like you need help. I saw a glimpse of your notepad. It doesn't seem to have any therapy-related notes in it. Although those are very nice drawings. I particularly like the one of the crocodile in a tuxedo"

"Thanks."

"Now, I find that occasionally surprising people with hugs is a good way to bond with them. Well, some of the time. About half the time. The other half of the time, they get angry and sometimes violent. But the important thing is that you tried."

"...Okay."

Doc hadn't been able to glimpse much about Flowers' mental state at all. The man was just so happy and cheerful. It was almost a little creepy at times. In any case, all he'd ended up with was a page of doodles of daisies wearing nice hats.

Later on, Sarge returned to rant angrily some more.

"And another thing, why am I the one getting all the flak for the riot when Flowers is the one in charge of security? Damn that girly-haired stepford smiler. And he's behaving like a bossy old nag. Pestering me to tuck in my shirt and stop getting drunk on the job..."

"Sarge, I kind of have other people to see."

"Too bad. I'm not finished."

Doc didn't even try to take down notes that time.

Then there was Tex. She was uncooperative. She just sat there, with her arms crossed and an expression of what was best described as amused contempt.

"Um. Soooo... any problems you want to talk about?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Positive? Because looking at your records, it seems like you had some issues in the past. Mostly with getting in relationships with criminals."

"That only happened a few times."

"Six times is rather a lot, though. Especially for a former policewoman."

"Oh, please. First off, most of them were only small-time thieves or drug dealers. Except for Church, but he was a cockbite. And secondly, if you compare that to the ratio of criminals to non-criminals in my past, it's nothing. I've been around. And if you start lecturing me on it I will punch you."

"That's unnecessarily threatening..."

This time, Doc had two pages of dinosaurs drawn when the session was done.

Of course, his anxiety about interviewing the other guards was nothing when it came to how terrified he was at the idea of interviewing Wash. Maybe because Wash was someone who, if not mad now, had genuinely been mad at some point, if the rumours of him being locked in a mental institution were true. And it wasn't hard to believe. And so Doc was a little afraid. Well, very afraid.

It turned out to be irrelevant, because Wash never showed up at all.

Doc wasted about fifteen minutes of the time he'd designated for Wash drawing more kittens. Every once and a while, he would take the can of pepper spray out of his pocket and start fiddling around with it. He'd had no reason to use it since O'Malley's last visit, but he always kept it on hand just so he didn't lose it.

Twenty minutes in, York turned up.

"If you're waiting for Wash, he probably won't turn up. I have tried to talk him into seeing a therapist before. Never worked."

"Oh. Okay."

"If you really want to find him, he's probably hiding in the laundry room. It's one of the few places where people rarely go. Partly because there's still bloodstains on the floor from people being attacked in there."

"No, I... I guess I don't want to force him into it."

"Reasonable enough. So, since I'm here, do you want to do my therapy session now?"

"Uh. Okay. Any problems you want to talk about?"

"Erm. No, not really. I assumed you had one of those psych tests where you ask the person specific things. You know, what's your favourite colour, have any weird dreams, take any recreational drugs, do you have a history of trying to strangle people you love, that sort of thing. For the record, the answer is brown, occasional reoccurring dreams about being chased by a giant vacuum cleaner, I ate special brownies once or twice and I think I would remember something like that."

"Hm. Having a test like that would have made these interviews so much easier. Aw, this means I'll have to do them over."

When York left, Doc had spare time on his hands since York had shown up early. And he couldn't stop thinking about Wash and his weird aversion to therapists. Come to think of it, he'd never actually checked Wash's mental records. He thought it would be intrusive on Wash's privacy. But then again, how would he know how to help Wash if he didn't know what was wrong with him?

So he located the set of records that he'd been given on each guard, in preparation for interviewing them. He hadn't really looked through them at all. It made him slightly uncomfortable to read things that people probably wouldn't like him knowing.

As he located Wash's file, which included medical and mental records, he started reading and his discomfort increased. The more he read, the colder he felt. When he got to the dental records, he felt a mix of nausea and perverse fascination. Something that persisted throughout the description of how he'd looked when first found after being missing for a few months.

He kept reading. The more he read, the more that Wash's behavior started to make sense. The entire time, he had his notepad beside him. After he'd read through the entire thing, he tapped the notepad with his pencil, trying to think of something to write or draw.

He didn't draw anything. And he only wrote eight words.

_I have no idea how to fix him._


	132. Chapter 123: Hit Me

**Chapter One Hundred And Twenty-Three: Hit Me**

"No."

"Aw, come on."

Church rubbed his forehead before glaring at Tucker. "Why the hell do you want me to try and find porn magazines? You can't see, dumbass!"

"Yeah, but... well, I can imagine."

"Imagine without the magazines! How will pictures you can't see help?"

"I can get someone to tell me what they're of."

"Okay, first: ew. And second: gross."

Tucker laughed before stretching his arms above his head and flopping down onto the floor. "Hey, at least I'm trying. I'm gonna keep my hobbies going, dammit."

"Blergh. Can't you find a less disgusting hobby?"

"Oh, like you never looked at porn before. Everyone likes porn."

"Yeah, but the extent that you like it is downright disturbing."

"Also, when you try to get Tex or Doc or whatever to get stuff for you, can you try to find something I can tie around my eyes? So that I can look badass instead of all scarfacey when they take the bandages off?"

"You realise you'll just look stupid, right?"

"Please?"

"Why can't you just find some sunglasses or something, like regular blind people do?"

"Dude, my eyes and the area around them are pretty damn scarred. I know, I felt the shiv. Sunglasses ain't gonna cover that bitch. Besides, aren't sunglasses more expensive?"

"Point taken."

"Come on. Just a bandana and some porn."

"You can have the first one. But I'm not finding porn for you."

"Even if I offered a handjob in exchange?"

Church fumbled with the notepad he'd been writing potential goods on and dropped it. "Jesus! That's a bit fucking forward!"

"Well... you know. Eventual handjob. Like, once I get over this whole 'wieners-are-gross' thing."

"So, potentially never?"

"Well, yeah."

"Eh. You're still not getting porn. Seriously, Tucker, whoring yourself out for porn is a new low."

"I'm not whoring myself out! Your face is!"

"That makes no sense."

"Your face always makes sense. Anyway... can you try to get the bandana thing before the next time Junior visits? I don't want to freak him out by turning up looking like Frankenstein's monster, alright?"

"No-one could mistake you for Frankenstein's monster. I think Frankenstein's monster was really smart and intelligent-sounding or something. Not you."

"Fuck off."

"You fuck off, you're in my cell."

"Yeah, but meh. That means I'd have to get up."

* * *

Grif was pacing. For the first time since Simmons' death, he was actually feeling a huge surge of energy. It felt like there were little electric shocks going through his skin, he felt so damn jumpy. But he had to wait. He had to wait until Donut wasn't around. Because if Donut was around when he approached Caboose, then this wasn't going to work.

Why did Donut have to be sleeping in? Today of all days? It wouldn't have been a problem if Caboose wasn't sitting in Donut's cell, waiting patiently for him to wake up.

Fucking Donut. Fucking Caboose. Fuck everyone.

Grif kept walking back and forth. He was holding one of the post-its that he had found in Simmons' locker. The one that had been stuck to the bag of Oreos. Every once and a while, Grif would look down and read it. _"Okay, obviously you ignored the first message. Quit going through my things! And don't eat these, they're for later!"_

Grif idly wondered if there were Oreos in the afterlife.

"Oh god, what time is it?" he heard Donut groan.

"Muffin Man! You missed breakfast! I did not wake you up because you looked very tired."

"Breakfast is over?! Oh man, I had something to do during that time! Crap, where's some clothes that don't smell?"

Grif quickly flopped down onto his bed so that Donut would think he was asleep and not ask questions like 'are you okay' or 'do you need anything.' After a couple of minutes of listening to footsteps shuffling around, he heard Donut quickly approach his cell.

"Grif? You awake?"

Grif ignored him, still pretending to be sound asleep. He heard a sigh before Donut's footsteps moved away.

"I'll be back in... half an hour? Maybe more?"

"Okay, Captain Honeybunch. Wait! But I have to hug you to make you less tired and more happy!"

"Oh, right..."

Grif inwardly gagged and felt a sick sensation of bitterness crawling around in his stomach. He heard running footsteps as Donut hurried off. Grif immediately got to his feet and approached Caboose, who was just standing outside of Donut's cell, humming a little tune.

"Hey, uh.. Caboose."

"Mr. Gruf? You are leaving your cell? Are you all better now?! I hope you are, because then Major Fluffamuffin will be happier as well."

"Uh, sure. Whatever. I'll feel better soon. Listen, there's something super special and important and all that crap that I need to talk to you about."

"Is it a secret? I am good at keeping secrets. I am a good pretender. And I like secrets. They make me feel important."

"Sure. A secret. A big one. But that means we can't be anywhere near a guard or another inmate. Okay?"

"Okay! There are places. Like... like the place where we used to play sports! That was fun. And people do not go there much. Sometimes I go there when I do not want people yelling at me." Caboose took off, babbling at a hundred miles per hour. Grif followed, though he refused to run. So Caboose ended up very far ahead of him.

The entire way, Grif kept an eye out for anyone who might have a reason to follow them. But the only person that would even be interested was Donut, and Grif didn't see him.

They reached the patch of dirt that had been their designated sports stuff area. Well, for Grif it had always been a 'laze around while Simmons bitched at him and Sarge yelled at him to stop being a dirtbag' area. But same difference.

"Secret time! Secret time! What is the secret? Is it about leprechaun gold? Or cake? Or leprechaun cake?!"

Grif's stomach was starting to squirm again. Caboose looked so childishly happy and Grif was about to smash that into pieces. Urgh, this would be so much simpler if he knew how to tie good knots.

"Caboose..."

"Yes, Mr. Gruf?"

"I was the one who caused you to crash."

"...What?"

Grif sighed, running his fingers nervously through his hair. Felt greasy. "Nine years ago, you crashed into a tree and hurt your head really badly. You remember that, don't you?"

"How did you... did Admiral Buttercrust tell you?" Caboose looked incredibly confused.

"No, Caboose. I know because I was the one driving the other car. I wasn't paying attention to the lights. I caused you to crash into a tree. It's my fault that you're fucked up in the head."

"No. Cannot be you."

"Oh, why the fuck not?!"

"Because... you are a nice man. You do not yell at me much and only mock me a little bit. You would not do something mean like that."

"Yeah, well... I did. I fucked you up."

Caboose blinked a few times. What Grif was saying seemed to be slowly catching up in his head. His expression was going from confused to hurt. "You made me... you made me stupid?"

"Yeah."

"...Why?"

"I don't know, dammit! Because I thought it'd be a fucking bright idea to try and drive to Spain without enough fuel to even reach the next state! Because I'm a fuck-up who wasn't paying attention! Because you were in the goddamn way, alright? Who the hell cares why I—"

Grif didn't have time to finish the sentence. Because Caboose punched him square in the face and sent him flying. Grif hit the dirt hard and felt blood start streaming from his nose. He didn't even try to get up. He didn't have to, because Caboose grabbed him and pulled him up by his collar, fist pulled back. He didn't look angry. He just looked really, really upset.

Grif waited for the next punch. But it never came. Caboose stared at him for a few moments.

"You hurt me," Caboose said quietly.

"I know."

"You made me stupid. Being stupid made my family be scared of me. Made Apples die. Made me think there were boogeymen when it was really a nice blonde stripper lady. You made me turn bad."

"I fucking know, alright? Now hurry up and finish what you started!"

Caboose stared just one moment longer. He still had his fist raised, but he slowly lowered it. It looked like he was struggling to do so. And then he let go of Grif. For the second time, Grif hit the dirt. This time, he sat up. He still didn't bother to try and stop his nose from dripping blood.

"The hell?"

Caboose didn't say anything, he just turned around and started to leave. Grif climbed to his feet, eyes wide.

"Hey! Heeeey! You're supposed to keep punching!" Caboose ignored him, until Grif went after him and shoved him hard in the back. "Finish it, retard! What the fuck is wrong with you? What happened to the Caboose who would crush someone's face into a pulp for the stupidest of reasons? Why can't you do that again? Hurry up and fucking kill me, already!"

When he got no response, Grif tried to shove Caboose again. But Caboose turned and grabbed his arm. It hurt a little, but not enough.

"I cannot do that. Donut would be mad," Caboose whispered.

"Fuck Donut! He's not here, he doesn't even have to find out about it!"

"He will also be sad. And I do not want Donut to be either of those things." Caboose let go of Grif's arm and kept walking away. "And, Mr. Gruf... I am in a mean mood. And if you want me to make you fall down, then not pushing you over would be the meaner thing to do."

Once Caboose was gone, Grif's body went on autopilot and started wandering back towards the prison. He automatically tried to shield his bloody face from the guards, so they wouldn't start asking questions.

The entire way back, Grif felt a simultaneous urge to punch something and cry like a baby. He managed to keep both urges bubbling underneath the surface.

His only coherent thought was that this was somehow Donut's fault. Motherly fucker.


	133. Chapter 124: Blanketface

**Chapter One Hundred And Twenty-Four: Blanketface**

"You notice anything... odd?" York muttered, as he and Wash patrolled the corridor.

"Weird how?"

"Well, people don't come this way much. Not unless they want to use the phones. But... seems like there's a lot of people around today."

Wash looked around. Studying the inmates that were lingering around in the corridor. At first glance, they looked casual. Like they'd just chosen this particular corridor to hang out in. But when Wash strained his ears, however, he could hear the clearly uninspired and meaningless conversation.

"So... that weather, huh? Cloudy."

"Yeah. Cloudy. You know... like, uh. Like storms. Storms have clouds."

"They totally have clouds."

They weren't here to talk. They were here for some other reason. And studying their faces, Wash noticed that they were all zealots. Why were these flag-worshipping nutcases lingering around this particular corridor?

It made sense once they entered the room where the phones were kept. Donut was in there. He had the phone pressed to his ear and was talking quietly. He also looked rather tired and depressed. Wash turned back to see the zealots regularly glancing towards Donut. Donut seemingly hadn't noticed anything odd.

They were waiting. Waiting for a chance to strike. They couldn't while Donut was on the phone, as guards always watched the room to make sure no-one was loudly plotting escape with the person on the other line. But once Donut left, he'd have to travel all the way back to the cells. And that would give them the window they needed, provided they were quick about it.

York glanced from Donut, to the zealots, to Wash's face. His expression darkened a little. "Did you do something?"

"What? What kind of something?"

"I don't know. Did you do anything that might make those guys start following Donut around? I mean, after the O'Malley thing—"

"I had nothing to do with whatever they're doing." It was technically true. Wash hadn't done anything. He'd simply neglected to stop a potentially harmful situation. "Why? If you're worried, I can keep an eye on things."

"Yeah, because that turned out so well the last time. I'm not that stupid. I'll keep an eye on him myself," York said. "Make sure you haven't been screwing around with Donut again. I'll just watch him until he's with Caboose, then they probably won't bother trying anything."

York had a point. Even if that point greatly annoyed Wash.

"Alright."

* * *

"Hey, Donut."

As soon as Donut finished his conversation with Mama Liz and hung up, he heard York call out.

"Hi. Er, is something going on?"

"Erm. No. Nothing in particular. There is definitely nothing suspicious going on. I just figured... erm... let's go somewhere! For a walk! Because, uh. We are friendly. Sort of. I mean, you're okay."

"...Thanks?"

"No problem. But we should go now. Right now. Away from the crowds. Where are you going?"

"To the cells. I left Caboose there, and I don't want to leave Grif alone for too long."

"Good, good. Let's go."

Donut trotted a long a few steps behind York. It was a little hard to keep up with him, because he was walking extra fast. Donut would normally associate that with people who wanted to get away from him because he was talking too much. But that couldn't be right because York had asked to walk with him and Donut wasn't really talking anyway. York was also just a little twitchy.

"So, you doing alright?" York asked.

"Uh. I guess. Things are okay." That was a huge lie, and York seemed to pick up on it.

"You sure? Doc was writing notes on which inmates might need more counseling. He wrote something about you getting more. Don't remember why, mental illness isn't my strong point." York looked back at him. "You know, I noticed your mother has been calling a lot lately. And you running off to the phones heaps. Homesick? Or..."

Donut's stomach had twisted up painfully at the mention of his mother, even though York hadn't specified which mother. "I really don't want to talk about it."

"Sorry. I was curious. I shouldn't be prying, anyway. I just figured I'd ask while we're walking." York cast a glance behind them. "Damn, they really are following you," he whispered.

"What?"

"The zealots."

Donut looked behind him to see six zealots plodding along behind them, trying their best to look casual. York came to a halt. It was so sudden that Donut walked right into him.

"Oof."

"Sorry." York turned to face the zealots. "Hello. Any particular reason for lingering around here? If not, you should probably go to the yard. The corridors are no place for chilling."

None of the zealots moved. They just glanced at each other and attempted to communicate to each other with strange eyebrow raises. Ones that gave a general feel of 'what do we do now?'

Eventually, one spoke. "We are trying to have a friendly discussion with the clothwasher. This is no business of yours, gatekeeper."

"Oh? Donut, do you want to talk to them?"

"No," Donut said instantly.

"Clearly he's not in the mood. Go on, go to the yard or something. Do some laps or push-ups, or throw orange juice at the flag. Well, flagpole."

"But there is no flag for us to offer orange juice to, and that is because we haven't done our duty." One of the other zealots narrowed his eyes. "Are you preventing us from doing our duty, gatekeeper?"

"Does it involve disembowelment? If it does, then definitely."

"Then we have no choice." The zealot nodded and he and the others all removed shivs from their jackets.

"Whoa. Easy," York said, raising his hands. Donut let out a small squeak and tried to will himself to run, but it didn't feel right to run off and leave York to face six crazy zealots.

"Death to the clothwasher. And the meddlesome gatekeeper," one said.

"Doesn't the flag say we can't harm gatekeepers because they're the only ones that can let us out of purgatory?" another one whispered.

"But he's in the way of us doing our duty! And we won't get to leave if he's in the way."

York sighed and removed his nightstick from his belt.

"I hate using this thing," he muttered. "Give me the shivs."

"We refuse. They are sacred weapons."

"Well, shit. Please? I'd hate to use this. Or use my pepper spray. That stuff burns. Come on, we don't have to get vi—"

He might have continued, but one jumped forward. York sidestepped him and smashed him in the stomach, leaving him gasping for air. Another smack and he dropped his shiv.

"Get the gatekeeper!"

Donut managed to slip out of the way as they attacked York, clearly thinking he was the bigger threat. York smashed another two of them, one in the gut and one he got across the face. Possibly on accident, because York let out a quiet swear when he saw the smashed nose.

"Owww! Why do people keep hitting me in the nose?" the zealot whined, edging away. There were still three moving around. Still, Donut was momentarily convinced that York could handle them. He seemed to be doing fine.

And then his luck ran out.

When York swung at the fourth zealot, the one who had declared they had no choice, the zealot half-tripped out of the way and rolled along the ground. And it put him in a good position to impale York's left thigh with his shiv.

There was a hoarse scream. York toppled to the ground because he was unable to support his weight on the stabbed leg. The zealot who'd attacked him yanked it free and grinned triumphantly.

"Red blood! For the flag!"

York didn't stand a chance on his own.

Donut saw the blood. The zealots and their shivs. And the last time the zealots had acted up flashed through Donut's head. The riot. Blood. Death. Maybe if he'd gotten involved quicker he could have stopped it. Maybe he could have prevented Simmons' death if he'd gotten there just a little bit quicker.

He was here now. And he wasn't going to let it happen again.

He did the first thing that came to mind. He grabbed York's pepper spray from his belt and wildly sprayed it at the zealots around him. He didn't get all of them, but he got the ones that had already been punched and the one who'd stabbed York. The attacker dropped his blood-coated shiv to claw at his eyes.

"My eyes! They burn like blue hell!" he screamed. Donut snatched the shiv off the ground. Normally the feel of the blood decorating the handle would have made him stop, made him wince, but the adrenaline was pumping and all Donut could think about was the riot. He grabbed the zealot's hair, yanked his head back to expose the throat and pressed the shiv to it, turning around to use the zealot as a human shield between him and York and the other zealots.

"I am so sick of your fucking cult!" Donut snarled. "You hear me? I am sick of it! First Walter, than Sheila, then Simmons... why won't you stop?! What are you even doing? And you make one more move towards me or York and I cut his fucking throat out! I've been feeling a lot of homicidal rage lately, so don't think I won't do it!"

The zealots didn't move an inch. They just stared at him, or at least the ones who hadn't been sprayed stared. The others were still trying to get the stuff out of their eyes. Donut's eyes were starting to water from the spray that was still in the air.

"Now, why the hell were you attacking me?!"

"The flag is gone. We want it back. And the prophet and our deceased leader requested your death, so... we thought the flag was punishing us for that failure..." one said quietly. "We thought if we sacrificed you to the flag, His Holy Flappiness would come back."

"That's why you're doing this? WHY THE FUCK DOES A FLAG NEED BLOOD SACRIFICES?! IT'S A PIECE OF FABRIC!"

"Um. Because it's, well... it's the flag. You know... uh... hey, guys? Why do we need blood sacrifices?" one of the zealots asked, turning to the others.

"Because the prophet said so. And so did our leader."

"But why?"

"I guess because blood is red."

"So is tomato juice, you dicks," York hissed, clutching his leg. "God, I fucking told Wash..."

"Ergh, forget this. Look, you got an easy choice here. Either you get the hell out of here and stop trying to kill me and York..." Donut started. He then tugged the hair of the zealot he was holding hostage. "Or... this guy gets his throat slashed. And then he can be the flag's damn sacrifice. But if your flag is angry at you, it's probably because you keep randomly stabbing people! SO BACK OFF, OR I WILL CUT HIS FACE OFF AND REPLACE IT WITH AN UGLY BLANKET MADE OF CLASHING COLOURS!"

Maybe they'd seen reason. Or maybe the sight of the normally nice clothwasher screaming and threatening to replace their faces with blankets was just a bit too strange. In any case, they only hesitated for a moment before running for it. Once the others had gone, Donut let go of the one he'd been threatening to kill and that one ran off as well. Donut stood still for a few moments, breathing hard and trying to get enough of the anger out of his system to at least function properly. Then he dropped the shiv he'd been threatening them with and knelt in front of York.

"York? Are... are you alright? Oh god, that looks bad..."

York was clutching his leg. His pants had already soaked red right through, and he was getting paler by the second. Despite this, and the tears streaming down his face, he attempted a weak, strained grin.

"It's... not that bad. It's that damn left side..."

"You're a terrible liar... You need help getting to the infirmary, right?"

"Don't think you're... you're strong enough to cart me there. Just—aghh—just find one of the guards and tell them where I am. I'll try to—nghh—stay awake."

"Alright, I'll find someone..." Donut got to his feet and started sprinting down the corridors, looking for someone—anyone—who could help.

Of course, the first person he ran into was Wash. Wash's eyes immediately narrowed suspiciously upon seeing Donut's hands covered in blood.

"Why are you bloody? And where's York, he said—"

"Zealots stabbed him! It looks painful! He can't walk, he's back there, he needs—" Donut didn't have to finish, because as soon as he said York was hurt, Wash's face went more chalk white than York's had been and he immediately ran in the direction Donut had been gesturing in.

Donut kept running for the infirmary. They needed to know what was coming.

* * *

_No, no, no, no, no, no._

Wash's feet thumped against the ground as he ran, wishing like all hell that Donut was just making things up. But he soon found York, along with irrefutable proof that Donut had been telling the truth.

"York?!"

York was clinging to his leg. His eyes looked glazed, like he was fighting to stay conscious.

"Wash?"

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit, I shouldn't have left... okay, just... just stay awake, I'll get you to the infirmary, just... just hold on!" Wash slung one of York's arms around his shoulders and tried to get York on his feet. When it became obvious this wasn't going to work, he pulled York onto his back and started carrying him to the infirmary. "Just a couple more minutes, then Sheila can... can try to fix you up. Just hold on!"

York groaned in response. As Wash hurried for the infirmary, he muttered, "Wash?"

"Yeah?"

"Taking down the flag was the most retarded idea you ever had."

York's face was so halting and pained that Wash couldn't tell whether it was a truly angry rebuttal or just an observation. But a strong wave of guilt swept through his stomach and mingled with the panic and fear that was swirling around in there. York was right. It was stupid. And so was letting the zealots plot murder and not bothering to try and intervene. As was letting York follow Donut around when he knew perfectly well that the zealots were planning on attacking Donut, but he didn't think they'd attack York, as well...

It was just like the time O'Malley had attacked York and jammed a cigarette in his eye. Last time, it had been his fault because he'd left York alone in the same room as that psychopath.

And now it was happening again. And once again, it was all Wash's fault.


	134. Chapter 125: Never Said Anything

**Chapter One Hundred And Twenty-Five: Never Said Anything**

"I'm sorry, but I would prefer it if you both stayed outside."

Sheila tried to get Donut and Wash to leave. Donut complied rather easily. Now that the adrenaline was fading from his system, he felt tired and the sight of York's leg was starting to make him sick. He thought he'd be used to the blood and gore by now, but...

It was harder for Sheila to get Wash to leave. As Donut backed out of the room, Wash was still trying to stay.

"I'll stay out of the way, I just want to make sure he's—"

"York isn't going to die because you weren't here," Sheila interrupted him. "You would do better outside."

"But—"

"You do realise that you're causing me to waste time trying to get you to leave when I could be helping your friend?"

That made Wash leave. The door slammed shut behind him.

Donut gazed at the door for a couple of moments before walking back towards the cells. He glanced back briefly to see if Wash was going to start pestering him. Maybe for not stopping York from getting hurt. But Wash had just sat down in front of the infirmary door, waiting to be let in again.

He plodded back to the cells, half expecting to get attacked again. But nothing happened. The zealots weren't trying another attack while the guards weren't around. Guess that made sense, it hadn't been the guards who scared them off...

Donut could still feel a lot of pissed-off feelings bubbling around in his gut. A horrible crockpot of anger, frustration, grief and stress from trying to keep things around him from breaking down, especially where Grif and Mama Liz were concerned. Too many bad ingredients, and all Donut could do was try to stop the crockpot from overflowing.

As he approached the cells, Donut quickly checked himself. Wiped away any evidence of tears that he partially blamed on the pepper spray that had been in the air. Quickly removed his jacket, which had York's blood on it, and bundled it up under his arm. Tried smiling, and when that didn't work he at least tried to keep his face in a less cranky expression. _Can't be sad. It'll worry Caboose. And it doesn't feel right to cry around Grif right now._

When Donut stopped in front of Caboose's cell, he was greeted with the sight of Caboose sitting on his cot, squinting at the floor. He was rubbing his head. His fingers tracing the areas where his old scars were hidden by hair.

Something was definitely off. And while part of Donut wanted to retreat to his cell and hide under the flimsy sheets until all the bad stuff went away, the nice part of him that had yet to be submerged underneath all the anger insisted that he try to help.

"Something wrong?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean... kind of. But you do not have to know about it."

Donut let out a long sigh. "Oh god, you didn't kill anyone, did you?"

"Not yet."

"Good. Then what's going on?"

Caboose frowned, still rubbing his head. "Grif told me things. Things that made me want to hurt him. And then he tried to make me help him go to sleep."

"You had a fight with Grif?"

"Yes."

"Aw, man. Okay, is this the sort of fight where you two just need to talk out your differences?"

"I do not think that would help. Unless he could rewind time."

"Rewind time, huh? Okay... back up a little bit. Why were you fighting?"

"Well... Grif said he had a super special secret to tell me. And that he could only tell me about it in a secret place, so we went to where we always used to play fun games. And I thought it was going to be something nice, like leprechaun cake... but instead, he told me he was the one who made me stupid. He was trying to make me angry."

"But that makes no sense. Why would he try to make you angry?"

"Because he cannot go to sleep by himself, because I threw away his yucky orange juice. So, he is trying to make me hurt him. So he will fall over. I said no, because I knew it would make you sad."

Donut went pale. "So... he tried to get you to kill him?" Caboose nodded. "I need to have a talk with him."

* * *

Grif wasn't in his cell. He'd gone back there at first, after his failed attempt at pissing Caboose off. He'd spent some time shredding his sheets and trying to turn it into a makeshift noose. It didn't work. He wasn't good with knots. For the first time in his life, he wished he'd joined the Boy Scouts or something as a kid. They knew knots.

As he'd been attempting to tie knots, as well as swearing a whole lot, he vaguely recalled Tucker complaining about how he needed to find something sharp to keep hidden in his cell in case of attack, since he'd given his last screwdriver to Donut a while back.

That had led Grif to wonder if Donut still had that screwdriver. And in turn, that had led Grif to go into Donut's cell and start rifling through it. Invasion of privacy, sure, but who the fuck cared?

It wasn't taped underneath Donut's bed. He'd learnt his lesson from the time that Miller's thugs had planted a screwdriver there. Grif quickly checked Donut's footlocker, but only found a container of fabric softener that was almost empty and a bottle of spearmint mouthwash. He was feeling behind the sink when he felt something pointy attached to the back of the pipe.

"Fuck yeah," he muttered, feeling around for the tape that was keeping the screwdriver there. As he did so, a voice spoke from behind him.

"What are you doing?"

"Fuck! Nothing!" Grif didn't turn around, nor did he remove his hand. He only needed that damn screwdriver for a few moments. Never mind that Donut was now watching.

"Grif. Seriously. What are you doing?" Donut asked. His voice sounded... off. Not his regular brand of worried or inquisitive, which was all Grif had heard from him lately. No. This time, he sounded like he was barely holding back a tidal wave of anger. Well, Grif was going through his things...

"I said nothing, alright? Fuck off!"

"You're in my cell."

"...Shut up."

"Grif. You better not be stealing my screwdriver. Especially if it's for the reason I think it is." Grif scowled, tugging the screwdriver free before turning around. He saw Donut standing in the doorway, looking at him with a pale, tight-lipped expression, which paled even more when he saw the dried blood that Grif had forgotten to wipe off his face. Behind him, Caboose was peering through the bars.

"Yeah, so what if I am? I'll only need it for a few minutes, so just mind your own fucking business and let me borrow it for a minute," Grif snapped, hiding the screwdriver behind his back. Although it wasn't doing much good.

"No."

"Yeah, okay, like you can actually stop me. And if you get Caboose to stop me for you, well, fine! Because that would—"

And then Donut started screaming at him. It came out so suddenly that it caused Caboose to yelp and retreat a few steps away from the cell.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?! Are you insane or just really freaking stupid?! You are not allowed to do this! It's stupid! There's too many other options! We could've talked! You could have at least told me what was wrong! I mean, I know what is wrong, but we could have talked it out instead of you being a stupid idiot!"

"Stupid idiot is repetitive!" Grif yelled back, for want of anything else to say.

"Shut the hell up while I'm yelling at you! And not only do you try to kill yourself, which is all kinds of not good on it's own, but you try to do via Caboose?! Do you know how hard it's been to get him to stop killing people?! And you're just gonna crumple that up like an unwashed shirt because you're too wussy to do it yourself?!"

"I'm not! I'd be getting to it faster if you would—"

"I said shut up! And getting to that! Trying to kill yourself is stupid! That's a stupid way out of things! Simmons isn't gonna magically pop back into existence just because you stabbed yourself in the face! And what about your sister, huh?! I'm sure she'll be really appreciative that she had to lose both you and Simmons at the same time, right?"

Something nudged at the back of Grif's mind as Donut shouted that. He felt like he'd forgotten something.

"You shouldn't do that! It's cruel! Family shouldn't have to leave family alone unless... unless they really have to! So... so at least attempt something else besides moping and suicide, because that's not gonna help anyone! But especially don't do it by making other people kill you, because that'll just mess everyone else up! ...And don't go through my things! And shut up! And—CABOOSE, WHAT?!"

Caboose had poked Donut in the back gently. "You are looping in circles."

"I... oh." Donut's mouth moved silently for a few moments before he looked at the ground. He blinked furiously a few times before holding out his hand. "Give me the screwdriver! Now!"

Grif was frowning. That feeling of forgetfulness was still there. And then, suddenly, it clicked.

He'd never told Sister about what happened to Simmons. He'd been so absorbed in his haze of depression and loneliness that he'd totally forgotten about her.

Grif looked down at the screwdriver for a few moments before handing it quickly over to Donut. "I, uh... I gotta go."

"You gonna do something stupid?" Donut growled.

"I've already done something stupid! I'm fixing it, now lemme leave already."

Donut let him go past. Grif headed for the phones as fast as he could manage. Whatever he did next, he couldn't just leave Sister in the dark about what had happened. He at least owed her the truth.

* * *

Donut quickly taped the screwdriver to the back of the sink pipe again before sinking down onto his cot. He really hadn't meant to yell. He'd been trying his best to be quiet and civil. But... but there were too many bad ingredients in the crockpot and it had just exploded in a way that real crockpots did if someone threw a stick of dynamite into them.

Caboose stood just outside, still looking a little spooked from Donut's outburst. Donut looked downwards. He felt sleepy. He just wanted to roll over and ignore the world, at least for a while.

"I'm... I'm going to sleep," Donut mumbled, before lying down on his cot and turning away from Caboose, shutting his eyes in an attempt to ignore everything.

After a few minutes of silence, he heard Caboose's footsteps shuffle closer. Then he heard the cot creak. Arms wrapped around him.

"You look too tired for hugs to help, but they cannot hurt," Caboose murmured.

Donut didn't really react to Caboose's hugging. But when Caboose moved to pull away, Donut grabbed his wrist gently.

"You can... you can stay," Donut mumbled. "If you want, I mean."

He heard Caboose hum quietly and snuggle closer. It did ease the angry, stressful feelings a little, though it wasn't enough to completely wipe them away.


	135. Chapter 126: Pink Tie-Dye

**Chapter One Hundred And Twenty-Six: Pink Tie-Dye**

"Come on... come on... answer. Answer, dammit! ...God-fucking-dammit."

Grif scowled at the phone and dialled Sister's home number again. He waited several rings before, once again, it clicked over to the answering machine. Grif could have told Sister the news over an answering machine, but that seemed like a really shitty way to break it.

He tried her mobile, but it was turned off. Worry was gnawing in Grif's stomach. Sister normally picked up much quicker than this, even when she was avoiding Grif because of the pregnancy. She never turned her mobile off, she was such a damn social butterfly.

Grif phoned her apartment again. No answer. And then he phoned her mobile one more time.

Finally, she picked up.

"What?!"

"Sister?" Grif frowned. Sister didn't sound right. She sounded like she'd been crying. And there was a lot of noise in the background. "Are you okay?"

"No! Things suck! I don't wanna have this kid!"

"Don't want to... oh, right, the kid. Why, what's happening? Did you change your mind?"

"I can't be a mum! And I read that when you give birth your downstairs area goes all gross and it'll hurt! And kids are noisy and sticky! I don't know what I was thinking, I can't do this! B-but the doctor said it was too late for an abortion..."

"Alright, just... just calm down, alright? What are you—" Grif stopped as he heard some kind of radio announcement in the background. One that clearly mentioned planes. "Sister. Why are you at the airport?"

"I'm running back to Hawaii! I don't wanna have kids!"

"Okay, you realise that you can't run away from something in your stomach, right?"

"Yes, I can! Fuck you!"

"Sis, you're being stupid. You're just freaking out, alright?"

"I know that!" There was a long pause, during which Grif heard another couple of plane announcements. "Dex, I'm... I'm kinda scared. Well, really scared. Kids are scary and giving birth is gonna hurt! I'll have to stretch more than when I'm giving someone a Mexican Halloween!"

"Ick, I don't wanna hear about what sex positions you do with people!" Grif rubbed his forehead for a few moments. "Now, listen to me. You listening?"

"Yeah..."

"Look, you're a Grif. And you know what Grifs are?"

"Lazy fuck-ups?"

"Fuck yeah. We're lazy fuck-ups who take the easy way out every time. It's pretty much in our genetics to run off to another country to try and escape kids that haven't popped out yet. But you can't run away from this kid. Shit's gonna happen, no matter what. You're gonna give birth to the kid and running off to Hawaii ain't gonna change that."

"But I... I can't take care of a kid. I'm gonna fuck it up."

"I'm pretty sure most parents out there fuck it up. I mean, look at Mum. Now, are you gonna run off and join the circus?"

"No."

"Then you'll be a better mother than she ever was. And like I said! We're Grifs! We take the easy way out, and there are tons of ways to half-ass raising kids! Just have to find them. And I have total faith that you'll be able to find all the half-assed ways to do this, Sister."

"That's the crappiest motivational speech I've ever heard, Dex."

"You see? Even my speech about half-assing it was half-assed! Genetic material, sis."

"I... guess you're right? I think? I dunno. Man, I'm confused. But yeah, I didn't wanna ride around on a plane anyway. Okay... I'm going back."

"Good girl. Worst comes to worst, you can just give the kid up for adoption, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Never thought of that." Sister sounded a bit more cheerful now. "So, why were you calling, anyway?"

Grif paused for a long time. Now that the worry was gone, the grief was starting to rise up again. He shut his eyes for a few moments before saying, "Nothing. I... I just wanted to check on you. Will you be coming in here once the kid is out?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't be long. Doctor said it'd happen in, like, a week."

"A week? And you're running around airports? Jesus, Sister! Go home, get some rest, alright?"

"Fineee..."

Once they'd both hung up, Grif leant against the wall, pressing his forehead to the bricks. He probably should have told her about Simmons. It was what he'd called for. But... he didn't want to pile that on her, on top of everything else. Or else she'd probably fly off on a different plane to try and find the Tree of Life or the Necronomicon or something.

After the birth. After the birth, he'd tell her. And hope she'd take it better than he was.

* * *

Three days after York was injured, he was told that he'd be unable to walk properly for a little while, but that he'd be fine after some recovery time, provided he did regular stretches to keep the muscles from going stiff. He couldn't work at the prison until he was better, however.

Wash hadn't slept well for the first couple of days. And since York had insisted they go out drinking as a way to celebrate the eventual recovery, Wash was also slightly hungover. Stupid mai tais. It was a combination of things that made it difficult to notice things. For example, he didn't notice Doc running after him until it was too late to hide in a closet.

"Hey, Wash! Wash!"

"Dammit."

"That's not very nice..." Doc started trotting alongside Wash as he walked down the corridor. "So, um, heard about York. He's gonna be okay, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's good. Heh, it's probably a good thing I wasn't the one treating him..." Doc went quiet. When Wash looked at him, he saw that Doc was staring at him rather intently.

"What are you looking at?"

"Um. Nothing! Not you. I wasn't studying you and looking for signs of insanity."

"That's pretty specific, Doc."

"Uh, well, I couldn't help but notice you didn't show up for your therapy session. And I got these really nifty psyche evaluation forms now.

"Wow. Forms. Because that makes you a completely competent and qualified therapist," Wash muttered.

"Hey, I'm working on it! I'm gonna start taking some night classes or something on the subject. But right now, forms is a good step. Anyway... what am I supposed to say if you haven't been evaluated? What am I going to tell the new warden when he asks 'why wasn't this person evaluated despite rumours of insanity?'"

"Like it matters."

"It might. Sarge was the one who ordered me to do this. Maybe he's gonna tell the new warden about this stuff." Doc hurried forward and blocked Wash from moving ahead. "Wash, I... I know you don't like therapy. But can you please, pleeeease just show up? Just so I can tick a box that says you showed up?"

Wash raised an eyebrow. "Are you seriously giving me puppy eyes?"

"...Maybe."

"That doesn't work on me."

"Darn."

"But I guess you're not going to leave me alone if I say no."

"Oh, good! Let's go, then."

"Wait, right now?"

"I'm trying to stop you from running away. I mean, if you're okay with that."

"You suck at forcing people into therapy."

"I'm not forcing you! That'd be pushy and aggressive..."

* * *

"Catch!"

Tucker heard Church say this, but had no idea what he was throwing nor which direction he was throwing it in. "Dude! Blind! I can't catch stuff you throw at me!"

"Yeah. But I'm an asshole, so..."

"Douchebag. I didn't even hear it land." Tucker started feeling around on the ground for whatever Church had tossed, hoping it wasn't something sharp. Church laughed and moved closer.

"Eh, quit looking, I'll get it. It's a bandanna. To tie around your eyes and all that."

"Oh. Awesome!"

"Uh, bad news, though. It's pink tie-dye."

Tucker could just hear the smug bastard grinning.

"Pink tie-dye? Pink tie-dye?! Could you have gotten a gayer colour?"

"Doc said there was pink tie-dye and rainbow. He thought the pink tie-dye was nicer."

"Fuuuuuuuuuck!"

Church started laughing. While it was nice to hear any kind of cheerful sound around the cells Tucker was still frustrated that the laughter was at his expense. After a couple of minutes of continuous laughter, Church finally calmed down.

"Okay, okay, come on. Let's tie this on."

"Fuck no, I only need it when Junior visits. I ain't strolling around in pink tie-dye."

"Yeah, but if it doesn't wrap around your head properly then I gotta find something else. And I can't get too much off Doc right now, I'm stretching it with the nice alcohol I got off him."

"Nice alcohol?"

"Oh yeah. Now stay still, alright?" Tucker felt Church move closer and start fastening the cloth around his eyes. At least it wasn't scratchy material. "Got some fantastic alcohol. I mean, gonna be hell to pay if the guards find it, but eh. I got nothing to lose. And I'm sure there's someone who wants some proper scotch. And I might be able to pawn off the bottle of pink, fruity-looking stuff to Donut. Plus, managed to negotiate with Doc for some packs of playing cards with the naked chicks on them. Consider that your porn. I told Doc it was healthier for the inmates to have pictures of naked ladies than for them to be riding each other bareback in the shower."

"Good haul, then?"

"Sure. Doc seems pretty willing to go along with this as long as I convince him it's for the greater good. We keep this up, and we'll have a black market as good as what Wyoming used to have. Maybe better. And being the guys who can get things is a lot safer than being the guys who blackmail everyone."

"Heh, good point there."

"And... yeah, it's attached. Feel comfy?" Church said, as he finished tying on the bandanna.

"Feels gay. Fucking pink tie-dye, what kind of shop was Doc—"

Tucker was interrupted by Church pressing his lips to his. Not for long. Just for a few moments, short enough so that Tucker barely had enough time to process it. Just as he started wondering whether he should pull away or kiss back properly, Church pulled away.

"What's gayer? Kissing a guy or wearing pink tie-dye?" Church asked.

Tucker considered this. "The pink tie-dye. Definitely the pink tie-dye."

"Alright. Just getting some perspective on things." Tucker heard Church shift and then suddenly yelp. "Gah! Caboose, how long have you been standing there?!"

"Oh, god, he was watching?!"

"It seemed rude to interrupt," Tucker heard Caboose say from the doorway. "Church, have you seen Muffin Man? I cannot find him."

"Why would I have seen him? Fuck off."

"Okay. ...And why is Tucker wearing a blue bandanna? Is he a ninja?!"

"Blue?! Church, you lying fuck!" Tucker yelled.

Church started laughing again. "Heh. So worth the look on your face. Well, what you've got left of your face."

"I hate you so much."

"If you're that disappointed, I can ask Doc to get you a real pink tie-dye bandanna."

"So much hate."


	136. Chapter 127: Thanks

**Chapter One Hundred And Twenty-Seven: Thanks**

"Uh. So, you want to lie down on the sofa? It's very comfortable. Well, not really. It's kind of pokey."

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Doc drummed his fingers against his notepad, staring at Wash. Wash had his arms crossed and was staring at the ceiling, looking completely uninterested.

"So... how was your day?" Doc asked.

"Stop stalling. Just give me the form or start the stupid therapy. I've got things I would rather be doing."

"Okay, okay, no need to be snippy..." Doc handed over one of the evaluation sheets that he'd located. "Just fill in the bubbles."

Wash stared down at the form for a few moments. "First off, Doc. You're going to have to give me a pencil or something to fill this out. Second of all... there's no questions on this sheet! It's just a bunch of numbers and bubbles."

"Oh, right. That's the answer sheet, I have the list of questions around here. Erm, somewhere." Doc rifled around through the various stacks of files he had around, finally locating the question sheet. "Here you go."

Wash shook his head before taking the sheet and reading it. He looked at Doc and raised his eyebrow. "Um. Doc? Did you print this off a random website?"

"Kind of."

"It's most likely not going to be accurate." Wash started filling out the bubbles quickly. A little too quickly, actually. He didn't seem to be leaving enough time to actually read the questions.

"...Wash?"

"What? Did I fill in a bubble wrong? Not use enough pencil?" Wash asked sarcastically.

"You're doing it too fast. Are you just filling in the bubbles randomly?"

"...No."

"You sure? Because..." Doc quickly reached over and grabbed the test, comparing it with the question sheet. "You ticked a lot of contradicting answers. ...Also, you selected 'very accurate' for the phrase 'I am very desirable.' That's a bit too much narcissism for you."

"Crap." Wash started rubbing out the bubbles. "Is it so surprising that I'd randomize it? I know I'm perfectly sane. And you printed this from the internet. At least get your forms from a legitimate source! What, did you use Wikipedia to diagnose your patients, as well?"

"Ye—no."

"You're pathetic."

"I'm pathetic? Just because I want to help you get over your fear of the dark and other such issues?"

"No, because..." Wash trailed off. His eyes got narrow. "Okay, who told you that? Either York, Donut or O'Malley blabbed it out, or you read my private files."

"Um, well... yeah, I read your files. I'm your therapist, I needed to know what was wrong with you and—hey!" Wash had climbed to his feet and started towards the door. "Wash! Wash, wait! Can't we just—"

"Save it! Save your stupid, incompetent psychobabble for someone who gives a shit, Doc. You've read the files cover to cover, I guess? Seen all the reports?" Wash was still facing the door. He wouldn't look at him.

"Yeah..."

"Then you already know what happened. So, what exactly were you planning on doing to 'fix it?' Hours of throwing terms you don't even understand at me? Cookies and hugs? There isn't anything that can be done for what's already happened, and even if I needed the help—which I don't—then do you really think you're going to be able to help? You? A five-year-old holding a clipboard and wearing fake glasses would do better at pretending to be a therapist than you!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Doc asked, raising his voice over Wash's. Wash stopped talking, though he didn't turn around to face Doc. But nor did he storm out. "Look, I know I'm terrible at this. And I know even if I try I probably won't get anywhere near the level of a proper psychiatrist. I mean, psychiatry is another brand of doctoring, right? And everyone knows how good I was at that.

"It kept occurring to me the entire time I was reading over your files... the fear of the dark, the state the police found you in, all of it... All I could wonder was how I could manage to fix something like that. I know very well that I can't. I don't expect to heal all the physical and mental scars with a snap of my fingers.

"But, after a couple of days of thinking, I thought of one thing I could do. Just the one. I can listen. I know that I can't give the most sound medical advice in return, but I can still hear you out. And I promise you that I will listen to every last word you have to say and try to help however I can. I know it's not much... but maybe it'll be enough to help. Even just a little. But I can't even do that if you won't talk about it."

Doc waited for Wash to respond, wondering if he'd been a bit aggressive in raising his voice. Wash didn't move. He just stood there, facing the door. Then he turned around to look at Doc. He was wearing an odd expression. Kind of confused, like he wasn't quite sure what Doc was talking about. Then he spoke .

"There's nothing to talk about."

He pulled open the door and left.

"Wait! Wash! Come on, Wash! Don't repress your feelings!" Doc yelled after him.

* * *

When Doc started calling after him, Wash sped up his footsteps. He would not be dragged into this ridiculous therapy. Filling in a test with randomized answers was one thing, but Wash was not going to talk about... everything... with a guy who straight out admitted he had no clue what the fuck he was doing.

Sure, maybe there'd been a fleeting urge to let it spill. But that was just because Wash wasn't used to people knowing about that. He'd never even told York where the scars scattered around his body came from or why his mouth was filled with fake teeth. And York had learnt never to ask. The fact that Doc knew and had the nerve to ask him about it had thrown him off. But that didn't mean he wanted to talk about it. There was nothing to talk about.

In the meantime, he needed to go hide in the laundry room. Make sure Doc didn't hunt him down. Passive-aggressive little jerk.

Wash hurried there as fast as possible and shoved the door open. Ready to hide in a basket of clothes, if that was necessary to stay away from Doc. But he was distracted by a yelp.

Donut had been sitting in the corner of the room, knees pulled to his chest. When Wash had shoved open the door, Donut had quickly scrambled to his feet.

"Gah! Gah, just... what do you want?!" Donut yelped.

"Oh. Donut. I didn't know you'd be here."

"Yeah, sure... bet that goes for all the times you happened to sneak up on me in the bathrooms, you creeper..." Donut murmured. Wash squinted at him. It wasn't immediately obvious, as the room was rather dark. But now that he squinted, he noticed that Donut's eyes were red and watery.

"Are you crying?"

"No. Yes. Maybe. Who cares? What does it matter? What else is this closet good for, anyway? I mean, besides stabbing people. It's hard to find private places in this prison, alright? And I called dibs. Go find your own closet to sulk in." Donut wiped at his eyes, looking anywhere but Wash. Similar to what Wash had been doing when Doc first brought up his old files. Whatever had led to Donut crying in a closet, it was clear Donut wasn't planning on elaborating on the matter.

Maybe Wash would have tried to make him talk before. Out of curiosity as to what could upset a guy who could kill someone like Meta. But...

"York's going to be fine," Wash said.

"Uh, what?"

"York. He's going to live. He's not going to be crippled or anything, he'll be back here soon."

"That's... that's good. But why are you telling me?" Donut asked, eyeing Wash suspiciously. "Are you going to start locking me up with crazy rapists again? Because I didn't have anything to do with York."

"Yes, you did. He told me." Wash stuck his hands in his pockets, looking upwards. It was his turn not to make eye contact. And this was very difficult to say. "He... he told me that when the red zealots stabbed him, you stepped in. Held one of them at shiv-point. Made them leave. If you hadn't, they probably would have killed him. Can I ask you a question?"

"I guess."

"Why'd you do it?"

"You're kidding, right?" Donut let out a strange, high-pitched laugh that sounded entirely joyless. "So, never mind the fact that he only got stabbed because he insisted on escorting me back to the cells and the fact that he tried to protect me first... you're asking why I didn't stand aside and let a bunch of psychos turn him into a completely unfabulous pin-cushion? That's the stupidest question I've ever heard. Wait, I forget you're kinda warped on the whole 'understanding-basic-human-decency' thing. It's because that's what a good person does, you jackass!"

"You're in prison! That automatically makes you a bad person! You can't use that as an excuse."

"Then I guess we're in another cycle of me telling you things you don't wanna hear, huh?" Donut shook his head. "Great. Just what I need."

Wash frowned, trying to think of a rebuttal. Donut kept talking before he could, however.

"Is that all you wanted to ask? Because if not, I've got things to do. Clothes to clean. Other closets to cry in. That kind of thing. Unless you're going to let me stay in this one."

Wash didn't move, so Donut shrugged and started to move past him. When he was passing, however Wash grabbed his arm. Not too hard, but enough to make Donut let out a girly scream.

"I didn't say I was finished. And I'm not attacking you, stop screaming." Wash mulled over his words for a while before talking. "Look... I don't really care why you did it. But for what it's worth... thanks. And I'm never going to say that to you ever again."

"Okay... uh, so if you're not-mad at me enough to thank me for something, does that mean you're gonna stop stalking me in bathrooms and getting people to chase me around?"

"Mm. Maybe." Wash let go of Donut's arm. "Keep the closet. I'll find somewhere else to hide—erm, I mean, patrol. Yes. I'm not hiding from anyone."

"...Right. Okay."

Maybe it would be easier to hide in the parking lot...


	137. Chapter 128: Carving

**Chapter One Hundred And Twenty-Eight: Carving**

"Sarge? Are you using your desk as a pillow again?"

"Shuddup, Flowers."

Flowers sat down on the edge of Sarge's desk. "I'm starting to worry about this bout of alcoholism, friend. You've smelt consistently of whiskey or pina colada since the riot. ...And your clothes look rather rumpled, did you sleep in them?"

Sarge grunted, his face buried in the files on the zealots who worshipped the Red flag.

"Well? Did you?" Flowers repeated, taking on the sort of tone a stern father would when asking if his kids had stolen cookies from the cookie jar.

"Maybe."

"Was the missus happy with that?"

"She locked me out of the house last night. Said she was sick of the drinking."

"Well, reasonable enough. I suppose the fact that you lost your job hasn't helped relations."

"She doesn't know that part."

"Oh dear. You should get around to explaining that part to her."

Sarge lifted his head from the desk. The files he'd been lying on briefly stuck to the side of his face before peeling off and flopping to the floor. "I don't want to," he grumbled.

"She'll find out eventually."

"No, she won't."

"I think she'll eventually notice when you stop going into work and stop getting paid."

"I'll figure out something... stop chatting, this ain't no ice-cream social. You're making my head hurt."

Flowers frowned, before tugging the files away from Sarge. He also grabbed some of the nearby forms and started filling them in.

"What in sam hell are you doing, goldilocks?"

"You don't seem to be working. And I've seen enough of these forms filled in to know how to do it. Sign the bottoms of these forms and then go home for the day. Explain yourself to the missus." Flowers scribbled down a few more notes on the forms. "I assume you'll want each of the zealots transferred to different prisons? To stop them from regrouping and wrecking more havoc?"

"Don't decide what I want and don't want. And quit filling in my paperwork! Especially with blue pen! How dare you bring a blue pen into this... this..." Sarge rubbed his forehead and rested it back on the desk. "Ah, hell. I'm not even in the mood for blue-hating."

"That depressed, hm?"

"I don't want to lose this job, alright? What other job am I supposed to take, now? They won't let me rejoin the army at my age. And I doubt they'd even let me become a prison guard here for the same reasons. Something about sixty-year-olds being too fragile. Hah, bullhonky, the load of it." Sarge let out a long, wistful sigh. "I'm gonna miss the reoccurring violence and punching of things..."

"I'm sure you can find some other way to meet your violence quota," Flowers said cheerfully. "You won't give up that quickly, would you? Perhaps you could wear a hood and be one of those vigilante crimefighters from those comics all the kids are reading nowadays."

"I ain't wearing a hood. That's what hoodlums and drug dealers do."

"Well, up to you. But in any case... rampant alcoholism and hiding things from your missus aren't going to help matters. It's very negative behavior."

Sarge said nothing.

"Are you silent because you don't want to admit that a dirty Blue is making sense?" Flowers guessed.

"...Maybe."

"Well, just go home and I'll cover for your work, today. Any calls come in, I'll just do my secretary voice and tell them you're in a meeting."

"Alright, if you're gonna keep nagging like a fussy nanny. But don't be using this momentary power to give the rest of the Blues advantages! I'll only let you transfer the zealots because their murderous bloodlust has no sense of direction! They haven't killed a single Blue, they just keep attacking Reds! Traitors, the lot of them."

* * *

Doc was currently organizing a list of inmates and employees of the prison, going through the list and making sure he had a blank psych form for each to fill out. He was still certain that some particularly needed help, but he couldn't officially judge people's saneness without some kind of measuring system. Well, judging was a bit harsh, he didn't want to judge anyone... just to evaluate. Evaluate was a nicer word.

Unfortunately, Doc was so absorbed in his papers that he wasn't paying any attention to the door, and didn't even hear it open. He didn't notice O'Malley peering over his shoulder at the forms, even. Not until O'Malley grabbed the back of his chair and tipped it over, letting Doc tumble to the floor. Before Doc could even really process the fact, O'Malley stood over him, raised one foot and pressed it to Doc's throat. He didn't press down hard, just enough so that Doc could feel pressure but still breathe.

"Go for the pepper spray and I snap your throat," O'Malley hissed.

"You're out of solitary, then?" Doc squeaked, in a failed attempt to be casual. Like he wasn't afraid of the shoe pressing against his throat. Though, truth be told, he was more afraid of where the shoe had been than it actually crushing his windpipe.

"No, Doc. I'm just using magic powers to project an illusion into your office," O'Malley said sarcastically. "I've been out for the last day. I would have come to visit you immediately, but I had some preparations to make first."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a roughly made shiv. Not the best one Doc had seen, it had clearly been put together hurriedly. Didn't even look that sharp.

"Yes, I know, not the sharpest of shivs," O'Malley said, like he'd been reading Doc's mind. "But my focus is still rather scattered. The only reason I could concentrate long enough to make this one is because the medication Dr. Filss has placed me on is much better than whatever you were pumping me full of." O'Malley smiled down at him. "Now, before you rudely interrupted me last time, I believe I was about to cut one of your eyes out."

Doc instinctively shut his eyes, but O'Malley put more pressure on his throat, just enough to cut off his breathing.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he said. Doc reluctantly opened them and O'Malley let him breathe again. "I was reconsidering, though. Maybe I'll cut out an eye, but maybe I'll cut off something else." O'Malley lifted his foot from Doc entirely, only to crouch down and swing one leg over Doc, straddling him. He brushed the side of Doc's face with the shiv, being careful not to leave scratches. "Maybe I'll remove an ear. Or cut out your tongue to stop your incessant whining about anything you deem offensive. Although..." O'Malley grinned wider before digging the tip of the shiv into the side of Doc's face, leaving a cut that was shallow but stung like mad. Doc let out a small whimper of pain. "Removing your tongue would be rather sad. Forcing noises out of you is one of the most enjoyable parts of our activities."

"O'Malley—" Doc started, but O'Malley interrupted him.

"Quiet. I'm not done. If you interrupt me, I'll be extra cruel and remove something from the lower part of your body." He reached back and briefly cupped the front of Doc's pants. "So, unless you want your genitalia to match your attitude..."

"I don't think you'll do it," Doc said quickly. O'Malley raised an eyebrow.

"Don't you? Why? Something about how everyone had some goodness within them? Or a different reason that's equally stupid."

"Not the goodness thing. I mean, if there's anyone who makes me believe not everyone has good inside them, it's you..."

"I'm flattered."

"But if you cut it off, I'll probably bleed out. Even I know that. And then you wouldn't have your plaything. I guess since you went through so much trouble to get me back here... well, that has to mean something."

"It means nothing. You're just more amusing."

"Maybe. I still think that's something." Doc stared up at O'Malley. "And I don't appreciate being treated like this."

"So? You don't get a choice in the matter."

"Yes, I do. I can leave."

"Oh, Doc, are we going to go through that again? Do you want another riot? Do you want blood and intestines to stain the stone floors?"

"No. But... but I don't want you hurting me, either. I'm a human being and I deserve to be treated that way, even if... if I'm kinda worthless."

"You barely qualify. You're not a being. You're a thing." O'Malley leaned forward and scraped his teeth against Doc's neck, causing an intake of breath and Doc to shake his head, mouth moving noiselessly. "An interesting thing, one that makes fascinating noises if you poke it in certain places... but that just makes you the humanoid equivalent of a squeaky chew toy."

"I think you should fill out the psych form!" Doc blurted out.

"No," O'Malley snapped.

"Please?"

"Therapy is ridiculous. And I will not sit through it, even if you're the one conducting it."

"Hear me out. If you don't, I'll run for it," Doc said. "I mean... uh, when my shift is over. But I'll run! Really fast! I can do that, I did track in high school." He didn't really intend to run. He couldn't let O'Malley start more bloodshed. But it was worth a try.

O'Malley glared at him for a few moments before saying, "You have thirty seconds to talk. But you're making me extremely impatient and irritated. And if I'm not convinced, I'll cut off your legs so you can't run."

"Eep. Okay, um... so, with how things are going right now, you're visiting me sometimes and then getting thrown in solitary for ages, right?"

"Correct. Urgh, solitary. It's extremely dull. Twenty seconds."

"But like half of that was you talking!"

"Fifteen."

"Okay, okay! So, I was thinking... that if you signed up for regular therapy sessions, you would have an excuse. And I would get to study you and your..." Doc struggled for a moment to find a polite way to say O'Malley was batshit. "Your thought patterns. Study your thought patterns."

"No therapy."

"Please?"

"Do you think begging is going to help?"

"If you say no, I'll run."

"Maybe I'll kill you before you can do that then, hm?" O'Malley growled.

"But you put so much effort into getting me back. I don't think you'd kill me after all that."

"Is that a challenge?"

"No! No, not at all!" Doc yelped. "I just think we'd both be happier if we went along with this."

O'Malley kept glaring. He moved forward, his face inches from Doc's. "And what, do you think, will happen when I inevitably get bored of you?"

"Um. I don't know. Probably nothing good. But until then..." Doc shrugged. "Can it really hurt you to go along with this? Don't you hate... I mean, dislike... solitary? You'd prefer being loose, right?"

O'Malley stayed silent for a few agonizing moments, his fingers tapping along the handle of his shiv. Then he grinned.

"My hatred for solitary does burn like a thousand suns... and I suppose there's little chance you could glean anything from any therapy you put me through. Not with your level of skill, which I'm fairly certain is in negative numbers. You have yourself a deal. I'll visit regularly and you'll make sure there's never any guards around to throw me into solitary."

"Alri—hey!" Doc tried to scramble back as O'Malley reached down and started unfastening his shirt. He couldn't move, however, because O'Malley was still straddling him. "What are you doing?"

O'Malley's grin could have split his face as he undid Doc's purple shirt, exposing the torso. "A signature. If we're going to be entering into such a contract, I want to mark my property." He twirled the shiv before resting the point against the middle of Doc's chest. "Not to worry. It'll bleed a lot, but the carvings won't be lethal. However, they will be permanent."

This time, the shiv dug in deeper. It hurt much more than the cut across the cheek. Doc thrashed around quite a bit, trying to squirm away from the shiv, but O'Malley pinned him down as best he could.

Doc recalled screaming a bit, but O'Malley crumpled up several of the blank psych forms and shoved them in Doc's mouth to stifle the noise. It was a terrible makeshift gag that wouldn't hold long, but it was enough. And Doc was then too busy trying to stop himself choking on soggy paper to scream.

O'Malley's carving didn't last long, although O'Malley lingered for a long time after it was finished. Only when O'Malley left much later could Doc properly clean up.

Doc had to sneak up to the infirmary and borrow some cloth to wipe the dried blood away with, and some bandages to put over the injuries. Although he could explain to Sheila the cut on his face ("I fell off my chair and scraped my face on something, ha ha, silly me.") he didn't let her see the rest. He waited until he was back in his 'office' before reopening his shirt to wipe away the blood.

He frowned at the markings O'Malley had left. At the Greek letter done in red. He was marked, now. Like a little kid had scrawled their name on him.

He had a feeling he'd made a big mistake, letting O'Malley come back to see him regularly. He knew it was gonna be unpleasant, to put it mildly.

But Doc wanted to keep some hope that maybe he could fix O'Malley. Even though the rational part of Doc's brain told him there was no chance, he still had to keep that hope. He had to. Or what would happen when O'Malley got bored of him?

Or even worse... what if he never did?


	138. Chapter 129: Cookies

**Chapter One Hundred And Twenty-Nine: Cookies**

"Muffin. Muffin. Muffin."

Grif could hear Caboose pestering Donut from his cell, as usual.

"Muffin Man! Do you want to go chase pigeons?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Do you want me to help you with laundry?"

"Maybe later. I'm nearly out of fabric softener, anyway."

"Do you want me to read you a book? I mean... I cannot read. But I can make up pretty stories!"

"That's okay."

"Would you feel better if I gave you these cookies?"

"...Where did you get these?"

Grif had only been half-listening to the conversation, preferring to stare at the ceiling with his hands behind his head, thinking about Sister. He didn't know how she was going. For all he knew, she could be giving birth right now. He was a bit anxious about the whole thing. Sister was right, childbirth would hurt like a bitch. Made him glad not to have female parts. Along with other advantages, like being able to pee standing up. Sitting down took time and made it harder to pee in inappropriate places when the bathrooms were too far away.

Maybe it was because he had something to focus on, lately, but the grief wasn't eating at his stomach as much. It was still there. It was always there. But it no longer felt like burning acid. It felt like a dull knife instead of a sharp one. It was like the worry was very stressful morphine.

He'd been dwelling on such things and gazing at the ceiling, same old, same old, when something came flying at him. A packet of Oreos hit him in the face.

"The fuck?"

Donut had walked in and thrown them at him. "Caboose had them. Said he was holding onto them for you. But that you didn't deserve to have them back because you were a poopface. Talked him out of it."

Grif turned the packet over in his hands. No rips or tears in it, although the contents felt just a bit crumbly through the packaging, probably from Grif tossing them across Simmons' cell.

"Grif?"

"Thanks, I guess."

"Well, holy crap, you actually said a nice word to me. That's the first time since... since the riot, you know." Donut turned around and started to leave, but Grif spoke first.

"Uh. You don't... you don't have to leave."

"You sure about that? I got the impression that I was being annoying before..." Donut said dryly. Grif briefly wondered where the attempts at being cheerful had gone. But dry cynicism was better than that awkward pity.

"Oh, don't be a bitch about it. Come on. Sit."

Grif wasn't quite sure what he was doing. But Donut always had that girly vibe. And he couldn't project his panic and worry about Sister towards her right now. So he focused on the closest thing to a partly brain-dead sister that he had.

Donut did sit down on the edge of Grif's cot, but he didn't say anything. Weird. Had he been like this for a while? Or was it a recent thing? Grif tried to remember Donut's behavior over the last month, but was having trouble recalling any of it. All he remembered was a haze of curling up in his own blankets and trying to ignore whoever came into his cell.

Grif tried to think of what to say. Questions he would have asked Sister came to mind, but questions like 'you're not taking any drugs, are you' or 'who the fuck is the father this time' didn't really apply to Donut. In the second question's case, that didn't even apply to most men. Even girly ones like Donut.

"Uh, so... how's stuff?" Grif asked lamely.

Donut's only answer was a shrug.

"...Cool, I guess." Grif spent the silence looking between the ceiling and Donut. Donut was twisting his fingers together and gazing off into space. As Grif stared at a cluster of cracks in the ceiling that looked like a giant cat—a puma, definitely looked like a puma, though Simmons had always insisted that it was a warthog—Donut spoke up.

"Can I ask you something? You don't... you don't have to answer or anything."

"Shoot."

"You've killed a guy, right? I mean, I've heard vague things about it, but... like, you cut his gut open or something, right?"

"Where'd that rumor start? Nah, nothing like that. I just cut his junk off."

Donut flopped back onto the cot, watching Grif with wide eyes and an oddly interested expression. "Just?"

"Hey, he hurt my sister."

"Okay. But... was that a spur-of-the-moment thing or a planned thing?"

"Planned. Why?"

"What happens when you kill a guy like that?"

"You're a convicted murderer, aren't you? You should know."

"Yeah, but... I didn't plan it out or anything. Is it different when you plan it out?"

"How should I know? I've never done it your way. Also, these questions are getting creepy." Bah, he never had to have the 'what's it like to kill someone' talk with Sister. This was definitely going out of regular 'comfort the substitute little sister' territory. "What's with this, huh?"

"Nothing. Just... just thinking about death, is all."

"That's creepy."

"Hey!"

"Creepy stuff is Caboose's area. You try asking him?"

"I don't like bringing that kind of stuff up around him. I mean... getting him off murdering people was hard enough." Donut started to climb to his feet. "Sorry, I shouldn't be talking about it around you, either... I mean, not after—"

"Shut up and sit back down. I can hear the word death without crying," Grif said irritably. Donut quickly sat back down. "Look, I'm in a rare sympathetic and receptive mood. And since I can't direct that stuff at my sister, I'm directing it at you. So, whatever's happening that's making you think about death too much, or any other bad shit like that, just say it so that I can stop staring at the ceiling and actually fucking help."

Donut looked away from Grif, fiddling with his fingers some more before resting his forehead in his hands. "Mama Julie died."

"Oh. Uh, shit." Grif realised he had nothing else to say about it. What did you say in this sort of situation? He'd never had to do it before. And he didn't even know Donut's mothers. He'd seen them at a distance on occasion in the visitor's room. But he'd never met them. What could he say? Well, she was a good woman. Very kind-hearted and warm. Oh, that was the other mother. Well, this is awkward. Grif wasn't ridiculously insensitive enough to say that, so instead he just said, "Erm. Sorry, man."

"It's okay. It wasn't a shock or anything. She's been sick for years and... I've been kind of suspecting it since the last time she visited. She was way too forthcoming with the 'I-love-yous.'" Donut smiled sadly. "Too warm. Knew something was wrong."

"Still. That's shit," Grif said, the back of his mind yelling at him. _You're the worst comforter ever. Of all time. Seriously, would you have said that to Sister if her mother died? Wait, their mother was in the circus and hadn't contacted the family in decades, never mind..._

He was still holding the packet of Oreos. His mind was drawing a blank on anything else to do, so he tugged the packet open and held it out to Donut.

"Take."

"Uh. What?" Donut looked confused.

"Just take a damn Oreo."

"Okay..." Donut reached out and took one. "Thanks."

"No problem."

Grif stared into the packet of Oreos. He gazed at the slightly crumbled cookies and realised that he was really hungry. Starving, as a matter of fact. He took out one of the Oreos and shoved it in his mouth, not bothering to lick off the cream.

Didn't taste quite as good as he remembered. Maybe because he was inside, in a cell that smelt of old alcohol. Oreos were better when eating in the sun. Or maybe he was just sharing with the wrong person.

* * *

"Hey, asshole. Come over here for a minute." Tex gestured at Church as she passed by his and Tucker's table in the cafeteria. Church pulled a face before getting up.

"Could have asked nicely, bitch. Tucker, I'm just following Tex for a bit, don't eat my lunch. That apple juice is mine, dammit."

"Eh. No promises."

"Fuck you."

Church followed Tex out of the cafeteria. They passed Wash and North on the way. North was rather amiably talking to Wash, or rather at Wash, since Wash was barely responding at all. Probably hanging out with him because York was absent.

Once they were out of earshot of the cafeteria, Tex turned around to face him, arms crossed. "I saw you trading with a couple of inmates. Handing them things. Didn't see what they were. You wouldn't be starting up a new business, would you?"

"Why must you notice everything?" Church grumbled.

"Well? Are you?"

"Maybe. Kinda. Yes, okay. But it's harmless shit, really. I'm just taking over Wyoming's old job. I swear, there's nothing too illegal in it." Not strictly true, since he was acquiring alcohol amongst other things, but few of the guards cared about that too much unless inmates were openly drunk.

"Where you getting it from?"

"Like I'm gonna tell you."

"Hey, I'm not going to tell unless you start bringing in drugs or something," Tex said. "I just wanna know."

"Alright. I'm getting it from Doc. We have an agreement."

"He agreed to this?"

"Yeah. On the condition that he doesn't have to bring in cigarettes. Couldn't talk him into that."

"I'll bet." Tex rested against the wall, arms still crossed. "So, set on becoming the kingpin of the inmates again?"

"I guess. I just don't wanna get beat up. Or for Tucker to get attacked. You know, again."

"Aww, how sweet," Tex cooed sarcastically.

"Fuck you. It's better money, anyway."

"But I definitely prefer you smuggling to blackmailing, this is a lot less dangerous so I won't have to keep such an eye on you and dive in to stop you from being shivved again. You're a hard jerk to keep alive, sometimes. Maybe this will help."

"Maybe. I mean, no-one ever touched Wyoming. If I could get a monopoly on the cigarette trade, like he had, I'd probably be fuckin' set up for life. But Doc's a total bitch about it."

Tex didn't say anything, but she looked amused.

"What are you looking at?"

"I'm right here, you know. You could just ask."

"What?"

"Man, you're slow today. Okay. I bring in the cigarettes. You sell them and then pay me for more cigarettes. I get a cut of the profits. And inmates will become too dependent on the nicotine to kill the supplier, a.k.a you. Everyone wins."

"Eh, I don't know..." Church mumbled.

"What? I've smuggled shit in for you before."

"Yeah, but occasional things. Not a steady supply. If you get caught, they might even fire you. Depends."

"Oh please. They aren't gonna kick me out, I'm the toughest bitch here. They know I'll rip out their skulls and beat them to death with it if they snitch on me. Besides, it's just cigarettes and I need the extra cash. And you don't seem to have any issue with Doc getting potentially fired."

"First off, I don't care about Doc. Secondly, I think he's immune to being properly fired. I mean, after that trainwreck of being a doctor they hire him right back as a therapist?"

"Point taken."

"And third, I accidentally got you fired from your policewoman job—"

"That was hardly the worst thing you did," Tex muttered frostily.

"I know, I know! The point is, don't want to get you fired again."

"Okay, we'll do this the old-fashioned way. Make the deal or I take snapshots of you and Tucker getting it on—"

"The fu—"

"Don't interrupt. And then I will sell them to creepy people on the internet. I'm sure there's someone out there with a fetish for grumpy or blind prisoners."

"Hah, there's no sex yet! Foiled, bitch!"

"Most people wouldn't brag about that."

"Shut up. But alright, if you're that desperate to break the law by bringing me cigarettes, sure."

"Excellent. I'll bring in a carton tomorrow."


	139. Chapter 130: Floodgates

**Chapter One Hundred And Thirty: Floodgates**

"Hey, Wash. Phone call for you. It's York."

"Ergh... now?" Wash mumbled. "He knows I'm stuck in the middle of a shift I can't move from, doesn't he?"

North shrugged. "Probably. Don't shoot the messenger, alright? Look, I'll cover your shift here while you're gone. I was keeping an eye on the phones, anyway, so it'll just be like a really short shift swap."

"Whatever."

"I think you meant 'thank you, North, for being so nice even though I constantly call your sister a bitch.'"

"If you're trying to get an apology out of me it's not happening. She's still a bitch."

"Not cool, Wash. Not cool."

Wash trudged up to where the phones were kept. Knowing York, he would have called for one of two reasons. One, something really bad had happened. Like a sack of cement had been dropped onto his bad leg and he was now dying. Well, he'd phrase it as dead if he was in the mood to exaggerate. There was another reason he could be calling, which was much more likely.

The first words York said when Wash picked up the phone were, "We need to go drinking tonight."

Then it was the second reason. Wash rubbed his forehead before leaning against the wall, phone pressed to his ear. "This couldn't have waited until after my shift?"

"Of course not. We'd be wasting precious minutes," York said. "Use your logic, Wash."

"So, you can walk properly again?"

"Erm, not exactly. Still hurts like a bitch. I found a cheap wheelchair, though!"

"You need a wheelchair?"

"I could do with crutches. But they make my armpits hurt. And besides... everyone should have wheels on their chairs. Because it's awesome. It's like how only people with bad legs have a legitimate reason for carrying a cane, but people still like to have canes for the dramatic effect. Especially if they're distinguished gentlemen or pimps."

"What."

"Pimps. I need a suit and a hat with a big feather, though. And a cane. ...Wait, I don't want to be a pimp. Never mind. Sorry, my mind got lost there for a moment. I think it's the painkillers. But that's neither here or there. You're coming drinking with me."

"You can't drink on painkillers."

"Killjoy. But we're going somewhere, anyway. I'm bored."

"Alright, alright."

"Okay. Are people still getting attacked or killed over there?"

"No. It's been rather quiet, actually. Well, as quiet as this hellhole gets. Sarge finally came to his senses and transferred all the zealots to other prisons. So we won't be getting any more trouble from them."

"Great. Because they were nuts."

"I'm aware of that."

"Crap, I'm probably holding you up from your shift, aren't I? Not that you don't wander off anyway to do things that almost start religious riots..."

"I'm sorry for pulling the flag down, alright?" Wash mumbled. "Can you stop bringing it up?"

"Only if you burn that stupid flag so another group of crazies don't start worshipping it."

"We can do that while we're hanging out."

"Excellent. Anyway, better get back to work. Well, not that anyone's paying attention, but better safe than sorry. Or something. Oh, and you're gonna have to turn up here and wheel me to the bar, because I keep not seeing rocks and other small objects and crashing my wheelchair. It's that damn left side."

"Just use crutches."

"But I don't want to..."

Wash hung up after a short argument of 'crutches vs. wheelchairs.' But he didn't return to his shift. Instead, he gazed at the phone. Just thinking about things.

It could have been worse, all things considered. The zealots were known for disembowelments. Injuring a leg was a few steps up. At least York would recover.

But one thought kept ringing through Wash's head.

_What happens next time?_

Whenever Wash closed his eyes he could see blood pooling on the floor. He could see York clinging to his leg and trying not to pass out. And then he could see York holding his face, covering his eyes after O'Malley shoved a cigarette into one of them.

The first time York had been hurt it had been because of O'Malley. Who Wash had been trying to get information from at the time. When outright asking where Alpha, Delta and the others were didn't work... well, Wash got mean. Did things like locking him in solitary before he'd done anything to deserve it and 'forgetting' to bring him food, just hoping that he'd eventually crack. Wash didn't know if O'Malley half-blinding York was a response to that treatment, but it was always a possibility. But there was an equally strong chance that O'Malley did it simply because York was there.

This time, Wash couldn't claim that. The zealots hadn't attacked York for fun. They'd done it because of circumstances that Wash had caused. Just because he wanted to see Donut fight them off. There was no way to convince himself this wasn't the case.

So, what happens next time? Does York get hurt even more badly? Does he get killed?

Wash rested his forehead against the phone box, eyes still shut. Little pieces of memories kept floating through his mind. Of crazy laughter and snarling and his mouth burning whenever they gave him salt water to drink as a 'joke.' And then he remembered before that. Remembered Carolina sitting at a window, staring at a warehouse. The moments before that ambush fifteen years ago. The last time Wash had seen Carolina alive.

He'd failed to save Carolina. He couldn't let York die as well.

Which meant he had to give up his grudge.

He had to stop trying to find ways to make Donut show how he'd killed Meta. He had to stop his attempts to get information out of O'Malley. He had to give it up because all it ever did was get York injured.

But how was he supposed to do that? After fifteen years of scheming, training and trying to track down people he knew only by the sound of their voices at most? Hell, he'd put a lot of time and effort into it... He even had scrapbooks at home tracking random murders and other crimes that might have been caused by one of them. He had a wall of clippings with red pen scrawled over many of them. And the more Wash reflected on it, the more he realised how unhealthy and... dare he say it... insane the entire thing was.

But... how to give it up? How was he supposed to stop it from coming up in his mind whenever he heard O'Malley's name or saw Donut and wondered how a shrimp like that could stop a giant man-animal like Meta?

_I thought of one thing I could do. Just the one. I can listen. But I can't even do that if you won't talk about it._

Wash frowned at just the thought of Doc sitting in his office and trying to help people with the expertise he didn't have. Talking to him probably wouldn't help.

But... nothing else was coming to mind. Wash hadn't tried talking about it before... Wash hadn't even properly talked to the police or the doctors who'd asked him about it. He couldn't, because if he'd given away too much... say, if he'd accidentally blabbed anything about the work he and Carolina had been doing... then the Director would have sent people after him and he would have landed in a shallow grave out in the desert.

The Director wasn't sending people to keep an eye on him any more, though. And they wouldn't have any connections with Doc. As long as Doc didn't blab... then maybe it'd be safe.

Wash stopped resting his head against the phone box and headed towards Doc's office. North could cover his shift for a bit longer.

* * *

"They've found a replacement?"

"Yep." Sarge tossed another card at the small bin that sat in the corner. He and Flowers had been planning to play Go Fish again, but the game hadn't seemed fun that day so they'd opted to instead throw cards at the bin and keep score of which ones landed inside it. Sarge was, naturally, throwing any red cards. Flowers was throwing black ones. "Replacement will be here in a week."

"Know anything about him?"

"Nothing at all. Just that he exists."

"Ahh. Have you told the wife yet?" Flowers threw a Jack of Spades inside the bin. "Eleven points."

"Bastard. And yeah, figured I had to at some point."

"How'd she react?"

"She shouted at me for a bit for not telling her sooner and chased me around with a broom. Other than that, she wasn't that sizzled about it. I could have retired a long time ago. Just didn't want to." Sarge got another card inside the bin. "Seven points, Girlylocks. I still don't know what in sam hell I'm gonna do once I'm booted. I don't want to be retired. I'll have to garden and wear beige jumpsuits. And that is not the lifestyle for manly men."

"I'm sure you can find some way to get into manly fights," Flowers said cheerfully. "Maybe you could dress up as a superhero and fight criminals in alleyways."

"Not that again, I told you that was ridiculous. Superheroes wear tights. That's the antithesis of manly!"

"Five points."

"Yeah? Well..." Sarge threw a King at the bin. "There! Sixteen!"

"Kings are thirteen."

"I said sixteen, shut up."

"Maybe you could become a bouncer if you lie about your age. I don't think the requirements are too stringent. Caboose used to be one. Though, admittedly, that ended with him killing one of their strippers."

"Crazy ox. And I think the wife would disapprove if I started working at a strip club. Or a regular bar, for that matter." Sarge tossed another card, but it flew to the side and bounced off the wall instead. "Barnacles."

"I'm sure you'll find some way around it." Flowers flung his last card. It hit the wall and rebounded into the bin.

"Show off," Sarge muttered.

"I wouldn't show off, Sarge. It's not sporting." Flower's slightly smug grin said otherwise, though.

"You're a diabolical bastard, Flowers. Who's gonna keep you under control when I'm gone?"

"Who indeed, Sarge."

* * *

Doc was reading over parts of 'Therapy For Dummies' when the door swung open. Doc's first reaction was to flinch. Usually people knocked. And Doc had no appointments right now, so when the door opened he immediately assumed it was O'Malley. And even though he'd agreed to see O'Malley regularly that didn't stop him from flinching. Besides, the carving on his chest still stung heaps.

When he looked up warily, however, he saw that it was Wash.

"Hey, Wash. What's—"

"Therapists have some kind of oath of silence, don't they?"

"What?"

"If I talk to you... you can't repeat anything I say to you, right? You can't tell other people?"

Doc blinked a few times, his mind still processing what Wash was talking about. "Wait... you mean you're actually going to talk to me? About... your problems and all that?"

"Answer my question first. If I talk here, are you going to blab later?"

"Well... I'm not sure of the exact rule with therapists, to be honest." Doc scratched his chin, thinking. "But... the Hippocratic Oath says I can't tell people about my patients. I think there's an exception in life-or-death matters, but I'm not sure..."

"Fantastic medical expertise there, Doc."

"Uncalled for. Anyway, I think there's something like that for therapists... therapists are kinda like doctors, right? Although if someone turns up here and says 'I'm gonna kill this person' then I'm allowed to tell the person they plan to kill... something like that. But I won't tell anyone about anything you say, as long as you're not plotting murder. So... does that help matters any?"

Wash crossed his arms. "Hm..." He stared off into space for a few moments before shrugging. "Fine." He walked over to the couch and sat down stiffly, looking extremely uncomfortable. "But if you talk I'm... not gonna be happy."

Doc heard the unsaid 'and then I'll probably have to strangle you with your own intestines.'

"Uh, sure. No problem. I'm not gonna talk or anything, it's unprofessional. And I know I'm not exactly a professional, but..." He trailed off as he hurried back to his own chair, sitting down and feeling around for his notepad. Well, it was more a drawing pad, since there was probably less than fifty words in the entire thing. "Just let me find my notepad and we'll start."

"Leave the notepad. You said you were only good for listening. Don't bother to pretend otherwise."

"Um. Okay." Doc stopped feeling around for the notepad. "Then talk. I'm listening."

Wash drummed his fingers against his thigh. He opened his mouth a few times before closing it again. After the third time he did this he laughed bitterly. "This is harder than I thought it'd be."

"Take your time."

"I shouldn't have to take my time. They're just words," Wash muttered. "It shouldn't be so hard to say them."

"Well, maybe... erm..." Doc tried to think of something that would let Wash talk easier. But all he could think about was Wash's file. In particular, the file describing Wash's state when he was found by the police. And before he could catch himself, Doc blurted out, "Can I see?"

"What?"

"Uh... your file said that you had a lot of scars from the basement thing... I kinda wanted to see. Not... I mean, it's not necessary. It's just..."

"I'm not taking off my shirt. That's weird," Wash said flatly.

"No! No, I mean... I didn't mean that, I just..."

"It's fine. I... I don't really care. I only keep them covered so people don't ask questions. And since you're doing that, anyway..." Wash tugged at the ends of his sleeves, pulling them back and exposing the forearm. "It's easier just to show it than talk about it, I guess."

Doc leaned forward a bit, squinting curiously at Wash's arm. To say it was a bit scarred was a horrible understatement. There were scars all over the place. But not the kind of scars you got with people who had rough jobs or got into fights a lot, where there were just nicks and scrapes here and there. These scars were obviously deliberate. Some of them were rather detailed. Shapes. Letters. There were exceptions. Like one spot near the wrist where it looked like someone had clawed at it heaps. But the rest was so artsy... Like someone had used Wash as a canvas. A really disturbing canvas.

"Is... is it like that all over?"

"No. There's... patches where it's like that. Usually where it was easiest to reach," Wash muttered.

And then Doc let out a yelp, because he saw the same symbol that was carved into his chest decorating Wash's arm, not far from the elbow. He automatically grabbed Wash's arm, turning it over to get a better look. Same symbol. There were other ones... all Greek letters. A total of eight different letters, though Doc couldn't remember which were which. But the one O'Malley used jumped out at him.

"It's not that disgusting, is it? At least you didn't see it when it was fresh."

Doc looked up at Wash, who was looking back with a rather confused expression. Maybe puzzled about Doc's sudden yelp.

"I didn't know O'Malley was the one who did it to you," Doc mumbled. "Sorry, I... the records didn't name who'd done it... said they were on the loose, still."

"How'd you know from the... ah. The letters." Wash pulled his arm away from Doc, turning it so that he could see the symbols for himself. "There's more of them in other places. But yes. When the report was made, O'Malley hadn't been caught. And he was the only one who was ever caught and charged for... for what he did."

"There were others, then?"

"There were seven all together... well, eight, but one got killed shortly before they caught me." Wash's fingers traced the letters. His expression looked faroff. Like he wasn't quite in this conversation. "There was O'Malley... Omega, at the time. Then there was Gamma. O'Malley said he's dead. Don't know if it's true. Then there were two others who are definitely dead... Sigma, he was killed before... before this happened. And Meta was murdered a few years ago."

Doc didn't say anything. He just propped his chin on his hands and listened with strange, morbid curiosity.

"Then there was Theta. He didn't do much. I heard he was a spy for the Director, but I don't think he ever told them where I was. There was Epsilon. Compared to the others, he was actually an okay kid. Definitely young, his voice cracked on occasion. There was... Delta." Wash pronounced this name in the same sort of way someone would say a particularly insulting curse word. "And the last one I never even heard the voice of. They called him the Alpha."

"Why'd they have you in their basement?" Doc asked quietly.

Wash didn't say anything. He just clasped his hands and pressed his forehead against them. "Dammit... Doc, you said you'd have to tell if someone was in danger, right? But otherwise you have to keep it a secret?"

"Yeah?"

"Does it count if the person I'm talking about is already dead? Before you ask... I didn't kill her. And does it count if... if how she died wasn't really figured out by the police?" Wash looked back at Doc. There were a few cracks in his normally cranky expression. He looked a little scared. Like he'd said far too much already.

"You say you didn't cause the death? And that it's already happened?" Doc said cautiously.

"Yeah..."

"Then... as long as there's nothing we can do about it now... then I won't tell anyone. I don't know if that actually works with the rules therapists go by... but I promise I won't. If that's what it takes for you to talk to me, I won't."

"Above all... you won't tell York?"

"Why would I tell—"

"I asked if you would keep it secret from York. I didn't say why."

"Of course I will."

Wash shut his eyes, still pressing his clasped hands to his forehead. "It was my fault, really. Carolina told me and South—"

"South?"

"—to sweep the area and find Delta's van. Stop him from doing anything. We just missed it. If I could have just caught that van. Maybe if I'd run a little faster... maybe if I'd swept the area quicker... maybe I could have caught that van. I could have stopped Delta. And then... Carolina wouldn't have gotten killed..."

And then Wash kept talking. It was like the floodgates had opened. He just kept going and didn't stop. It didn't even make sense half the time because Wash kept talking about things Doc didn't know anything about. Stuff about directors and smugglers and Doc was left wondering what the hell Wash had been doing back then. But the stuff Doc did understand... it sounded as bad, if not worse, as what Wash's files had hinted at. And Doc had to wonder how long Wash had bottled this up for.

Doc didn't have to say anything. He just had to sit there and listen. He wasn't even sure if he could have gotten a word in if he'd tried or if Wash would have heard it anyway. But he didn't try. He just listened. Because what else could he do?

All he could do was listen, assemble the pieces of Wash's past like some strange jigsaw puzzle and see if he could find a way to glue them together and make a healthy person, instead of this scarred, cranky man who was currently spilling many years of memories and regrets at him.

* * *

North sat in the corner of the yard, waiting for Wash to return and getting immensely frustrated that he was now missing out on one of his easier shifts because York called at an inappropriate time.


	140. Chapter 131: Dead Guy Junior

**Chapter One Hundred And Thirty-One: Dead Guy Junior**

Grif stared apprehensively at the door to the visitor's room. He couldn't remember dreading something this much. Except possibly when he'd been awaiting trial for killing Sister's old fuckbuddy. Worse things had happened, of course. Like the riot. Like what had happened to Simmons. But he'd never had time to dread that, because it'd been over so quickly. Shiv. Gut. Dead.

How the hell did he explain this to Sister, though?

_You see, Sister, a crazy man who worshipped a piece of red fabric stabbed him because we were trying to kill a psychopath that had attacked the girliest guy in prison_. That seemed like such an... inadequate reason for her 'brother-in-law' (well, she insisted he was a brother-in-law) to...

How the fuck did he even say that? How do you break the news to someone? What do you say? 'He passed away?' Fuck no, he didn't pass away, that sounds peaceful and... it wasn't fucking peaceful at all, and... God, just thinking about this was making Grif's chest hurt again.

Simmons would probably have been better at this sort of thing. He at least knew words. Then again, he was so fucking awkward when it came to social stuff... maybe he would have fucked up even more.

Grif wondered if maybe he should keep quiet for a bit longer. Sister had only squeezed out a kid in the last week and barely gotten out of the hospital. She'd called a few days ago to tell him about it, using a hospital phone. She still hadn't named the kid, and was still considering naming him after their mother. Grif had to re-explain why you didn't name boys after female relatives, regardless of how much facial hair those female relatives had.

Grif tried to focus on something else. Pondering the issue was making everything hurt.

He wasn't alone in the corridor. Tucker was standing nearby, fidgeting madly. He kept fiddling with the blue cloth wrapped around his eyes.

"What the fuck's up your butt?" Grif muttered. He didn't like talking to Tucker at the best of times. But anything to keep his mind off things.

"Junior's going to freak out," Tucker mumbled. "Is my scarfy thing on properly? You can't see the stuff underneath it, can you?"

The bandages had recently been removed from Tucker's eyes. However, Tucker had kept them covered as often as possible. Grif had only seen the actual injury once, during showering time the day before. Tucker's face was not a pretty sight. The top half was covered in painful-looking, lumpy scars and the eyes were a mess. Tucker had stared downwards (well, pointed his face downwards) and tried to shield his face the entire time he had to go with the injuries uncovered. Ashamed, even if he couldn't see how fucked he looked.

Maybe he could sense that a lot of inmates kept glancing at the injuries, with somewhat satisfied expressions. Tucker had a lot of enemies, after all. Even Grif had felt a part of him doing a warped, evil little jig at the sight. Misery loves company and that love is much stronger if it's someone you hate. Although the majority of him just felt pity. Grif wouldn't want to turn up in front of Sister looking like that.

Although at that moment he would have traded. _Hey, Tucker, I'll give you my eyes if you pass onto Sister the news about Simmons._ But that wasn't how injuries and responsibilities worked.

Fucking responsibilities.

The door to the visitor's room swung open. North was there. He gestured at Tucker, before remembering that Tucker couldn't see him.

"Tucker? You can go in now. You need some help?"

"I don't need any damn charity," Tucker grumbled, before feeling his way to the door. North shrugged before shutting the door. Grif was left alone again, with nothing to keep his mind off the pain in his chest and the dread of having to pass some of this pain off to Sister.

* * *

Tucker did need charity. He could get through the door by himself. But he couldn't actually find his way to where Junior would be waiting. He couldn't sense that by feeling around, since there was a wall of glass between him and any visitors.

"Erm. Okay. I do kinda need some help."

North guided him gently along. Tucker strained his ears, trying to hear any hint of 'blarghs.' Any sign of his son. And all he could rely on was hearing. He would only be able to hear Junior for the next decade, at least.

Eventually North stopped Tucker and turned him around, before guiding him to a chair. "Here you go. Call me when you want to leave."

"I can figure out how to leave," Tucker grumbled, sitting down. Was he facing Junior? He couldn't tell. For all he knew, North could have sat him in front of someone else as a joke. "Junior? You there?"

There was silence. Tucker wondered if it was because he was sitting in the wrong place or because Junior wasn't saying anything.

"Junior?"

And then there was three 'words.'

"BLARGH HONK FUCK?!"

Tucker almost fell out of his chair. "Whoa! Okay, first off. Who taught you that language? And I mean that in at least two different ways. Where'd you learn the swearwords? You're not supposed to know that stuff at eleven. I mean, I did, but that's because your grandmother's clients were really foul-mouthed and the walls were super thin. And when did you learn a word of English? Only English I've ever heard you speak is 'Bow Chika Honk Honk,' and you know that shit's genetic."

"...Blargh?"

"No more English besides that, huh?"

Silence. Junior could have been nodding or shaking his head. Or dancing the hula, for all Tucker knew.

"Okay, but English would make this so much more understandable. Where were we?"

"Blargh honk..."

"He's pointing at your bandana," North stage-whispered. "I think he wants to know about the... you know."

"Shut up, North! I didn't ask for your help..."

Tucker ignored him. Instead, his fingers reached up to touch the blue fabric. Well, presumably blue. He only had Caboose's word on it, really. Damn, did he miss colours.

"This, huh?"

"Honk." That sounded affirmative.

"Oh, there was a riot a few weeks back. There was a crazy guy who angry because..." Tucker trailed off. He didn't want to tell Junior he'd talked a man into suicide once, albeit accidentally. "Doesn't matter why. Point is, he attacked me. And I'm a little bit blind. But no biggie, right?"

"...Honk?"

"Oh, it's not as painful as it could be." Lies. "Don't worry about it. It just means I... won't be able to see you get taller. You can describe your height to me, it'll be fine. Exaggerate, if you want," Tucker joked. "...Jokes aren't helping, right?"

"Blargghhh."

"Damn." Tucker heard the crumple of paper. "Eh? I heard that. What're you holding?"

"Honk honk."

"Pencil drawing," North mumbled.

Tucker kind of wanted to snap at North again, but this time he refrained. "Pencil drawing, huh? Was it for me?"

"Honk." Sounded like a yes.

"Well, I can still keep it. Haven't taken your pictures down. It'll be fine."

"Blarrrgh?"

"It's fine. It's... fine..."

Tucker wanted to see the picture Junior was holding. Tucker wanted to see Junior. He wanted to see the colour blue. He just wanted his goddamn sight back. He suddenly really wanted to cry. But he couldn't. His eyes were too fucked. Tears didn't come out of them anymore.

Instead, Tucker pressed his hand against the glass. "I'm sorry, Junior. I really did want to see you grow up."

He felt a slight creak come from the glass. He knew Junior had pressed his hand against the glass as well.

* * *

Just walking to where Sister was sitting felt like walking the last mile.

It took Grif a few moments to even recognise Sister. She was much more unkempt than he was used to seeing. She was wearing more modest, baggy clothes (probably to help conceal the baby weight) and had no make-up on. She also looked very tired.

"Kids. Are. Fucking. Noisy," she grumbled as soon as Grif sat down.

"I take it this 'giving-birth-to-a-Grifspawn' thing hasn't been great?"

"Eh, good and bad. I mean, he's adorable. I guess his dad must have been pretty although I can't remember who it was... also, he's got me as a mother, so that means he's gonna look awesome. But... so noisy. And poop everywhere! Like a really small horse that poops a hundred times the normal amount."

"Gross."

"I know, right?"

"Okay, sis... first off, where the hell is the kid?"

"I didn't bring him with me. I do not want to have to explain why his uncles are in prison right now. Because he doesn't know words yet, so I'd have to explain it later anyway."

Grif's stomach twisted when Sister pluralized the word 'uncle.'

"I left him with a neighbour. Not one that's a crack addict, either."

"So, you haven't locked him in a cupboard or tried to sell him to anyone?"

"Of course not, Dex! ...Okay, I might have had a brief urge to sell the kid on the way home from the hospital, but that was a split-second freakout."

Grif could only cover his face. "Oh, god..."

"Don't worry, Dex, I got this mothering thing down. Look, I brought a picture! Wanna see?" Sister rifled around in her bag before pulling out a photo and pressing it against the glass screen. "Ain't that the most adorable kid ever?"

Grif stared at the picture for a few moments. He actually thought it was one of the uglier kids he'd ever. In all honesty, the kid was shaped a bit like a traffic cone. He'd clearly inherited looks from the bearded fat lady that was his grandmother. Kid was just lucky that facial hair was acceptable for men.

But Grif supposed there were worse things in the world than traffic cone babies. And looking at this picture finally made him realise that, holy crap, he was an uncle. That Sister really was a mother and it wasn't some weird bullshit that she made up while high on three kinds of drugs.

"Sure. Cute kid." Grif neglected to mention the resemblance to traffic cones. "Got a name for him yet?"

"I'm still thinking on it."

"I still say name him Bruce Lee."

"Never."

Normal conversation. Given the circumstances, probably as normal as it could have gotten. And Grif started hoping that Simmons just wouldn't come up in conversation.

"Ooh, I need to show this to Simmons!"

_Fuuuuuuck._

Sister was craning her head a little, trying to see through the door on Grif's side of the visitor's room. Grif had to tell her now. There was no way he could back out like a coward.

"Sister... I have something to tell you. About Simmons."

"About Simmons? What is it? Is he mad at me?" Sister frowned slightly, thinking. "Why would he be mad at me?"

"He's not—"

"Is this because I used his old computer to download porn? Because he said I could use it. He said it'd be a ridiculously old model by the time he was released, and it doesn't work that well compared to all the shiny stuff nowadays already..."

"Sister. Be quiet for a minute," Grif said, teeth gritted. Her babbling was not making this any easier.

"Okay."

"About... a month ago. Or two months ago, I... I don't know, anymore." Grif had long since lost track of the days since the riot. "There was a riot. A bad one. During it, Simmons got..." Grif struggled with his words for a moment. "He got attacked. This insane flag worshipping guy just... just stabbed him."

"Stabbed? Is he in the infirmary?" Sister asked. Even as she asked this, her eyes had gotten wider. An inkling of realization was starting to appear.

"No. He..." Grif shut his eyes. The pain in his chest that he'd had since the riot spiked painfully. "He's dead, Sis."

There was a long stretch of silence. Grif was expecting Sister to cry right away. Or something along those lines. Sister was just staring at him. She'd gone pale, making the shadows under her eyes stand out a lot more.

"...No. No, he can't be. That... that just makes no sense, why would anyone attack... No-one would attack Simmons, if they were going to attack anyone they'd attack you because you always steal food and yell at people and prison people don't like that! They wouldn't attack Simmons, he... he... Dex, if this is some really horrible joke, I'm going to punch through this glass and strangle you!"

Grif didn't say anything. What could he say? And then Sister thumped her fist on the glass anyway, not that it did any good.

"You... you jerk! How could you not tell me this?! A month, two months, how could you keep this a secret! How could you?! How could you?! You... you..."

"It... it was an accident, at first," Grif mumbled. "I forgot."

"How could you forget something like that?!"

I don't know, alright?! I just did. And then, that time I called you... when you were freaking out about the kid? I'd meant to tell you then. But you were terrified and freaking out and... and it didn't feel right. I didn't want to add to your stress. I know that's a shitty excuse, but..."

"You're freaking right, it's a shitty excuse!" Sister half-screamed. Her voice kept cracking. "And what happened to the other guy?"

"Other guy?"

"The flag guy! The cockless buttfaced fabric cultist that killed him! What happened to him?!"

"He's dead." Grif said shortly. He didn't add that he'd been the one to kill him. The guards had never charged him for that, probably because no-one had come forth to condemn him. Not even O'Malley, though who knew why. Maybe he'd been too distracted by Lopez and Donut to notice the death of his little follower.

"Good. I hope he's getting his dick bitten off in Hell," Sister muttered bitterly. She planted her forehead in her hands. Grif just stayed quiet. He was a little afraid she was going to start screaming again.

"It's... definitely not a bad joke?" Sister asked. "Definitely not?"

"Sorry."

Sister's face crumpled up and she hid it in her hands again. Grif couldn't tell if she was crying, but he assumed she was.

There was silence between them for a few minutes. Grif couldn't think of anything else to say. And he couldn't rely on Sister's babbling to fill in the silence because she still had her face buried in her hands. And physical contact wasn't an option. How could they hug through the glass? Regardless of how much Grif wanted to comfort her... or how much he wanted to be comforted by someone who wasn't flamboyantly gay and currently very grumpy.

"Dex?" Sister's voice was quiet, but it finally broke the silence. She peered between her fingers. Her eyes were red. She'd definitely been crying, then. "Dex, you... you won't do anything stupid, will you?"

"What?"

"You won't do anything stupid. Like... I don't know. I mean, you and Simmons... you were gonna get married and all that."

"We were never gonna get married. That shit's for sissies. And Simmons wouldn't wear the dress." Although that mental image actually made him smile a little, for the first time in a few weeks. Why now?

"But you were really close. Really, really close. He went to prison for you and everything..." Sister leaned forward, pressing her hands against the window. "Please, don't... don't do anything bad. Don't... you know..." Sister made a motion like she was cutting her own throat. "Don't do that."

For Sister to dance around words, even ones like 'kill yourself,' was unusual. She normally spewed out insensitive comments with little more than a second thought. If she was being vague, that meant just contemplating it was hurting her.

Losing two brothers so quickly would hurt like a bitch, after all.

And even then, part of Grif still wanted to run back to the cells and find Donut's screwdriver. Finish the job. But the rest of him just focused on Sister. Unkempt, suddenly hesitant Sister. The sister he'd given up his freedom for. The sister who he'd do it all again for. And who would probably fuck up royally in some way if he wasn't there to hold her hand, even if she insisted that she was fine.

Plus, that little kid of hers would need some kind of masculine figure in his life. And what better one than a drunk, jailed uncle? ...Okay, probably a lot of better things, but that was beside the point.

"Don't worry, Sister. I'm not gonna do anything stupid."

Sister smiled sadly back at him. "Awesome." She was fiddling around with the picture of her new son. She glanced down at it. "...I guess that solves one problem."

"Eh?"

"Remember? You said we couldn't name the kid after Simmons because... because kids were only named after dead people." Her voice hitched briefly as she explained.

"Oh." Grif frowned slightly at the picture of the cone-like baby. "I... I don't know."

"Why?"

"Well, for one... it's cheesy as hell. But... I dunno, I guess being reminded of Simmons so often is... is..." Grif didn't finish the sentence. He'd been so determined, not long after the riot, to try and obliterate any memory of Simmons through alcohol. Just so it wouldn't hurt anymore. But he knew... no matter how much fermented orange juice he drank, no matter how much he hit his head against the wall...

He knew there was no possible way he could ever forget about Simmons. He'd never forget that whine and all that nerdy shit he'd always read and his stupid, smug smile whenever Grif lost an argument about which superhero would beat who... Unforgettable. All of it. No matter how much it hurt, Grif would have to remember it.

And maybe remembering it all wasn't such a bad thing.

"Dex?"

"Never mind. I guess it's as good a name as any. But leave off the 'Dick' part, or I'm gonna be obligated to call him 'the little wiener.'"

"Wait, how will it work, then? Do I use Simmons' last name as his first name or his middle name as his first name or..."

"I have no idea. ...What were Simmons' parents thinking when they named him 'Dick Shirley Simmons?' No matter how you put that... see, that's why me and Simmons never got married. Because 'Dick Grif' sounds stupid."

"Um. Should I just stay with Simmons Shirley Grif?"

"Eh. Make his middle name something manly. ...Like Bruce Lee."

"Grif!"

"Okay, fine. Simmons Shirley Grif. ...He's gonna get picked on, but I guess it's better than his name being 'Dick' or 'Richard Simmons.' Let's just hope he doesn't pick up his namesake's nerdiness."

Maybe having a reminder, even a small one like the name of a traffic-cone-shaped nephew, wasn't so bad.

* * *

Donut had no visitors. It wasn't a surprise. He didn't think Mama Liz was up for long distances at the moment. He was kind of glad. He'd never gotten around to explaining the ear issue to her, and didn't want to pile on a freakout about the dark hole in the side of his head on top of everything else.

Caboose had wandered off to see Sheila. Since it was visitor's day, and since Sheila was the only visitor he'd ever had in his seven year imprisonment, he probably decided that visiting Sheila in the infirmary would count as a 'visitor's day.' Grif and Tucker had relatives visiting and Donut had no idea where the hell Church was, so the cells were pretty empty.

Donut was sitting on his bed, turning the screwdriver that Tucker had once given him over and over in his hands. And whenever he closed his eyes, O'Malley came to mind.

He still wanted O'Malley dead. And O'Malley was out of solitary now. If he wanted to get rid of him... now was the time.

But did he really want to do that?

Donut flopped back onto the deflated pillows, still turning the screwdriver over. It couldn't be that difficult to kill O'Malley, right? He'd managed to kill Maine, and Maine had been huge. More like a puma than a man. Comparatively, O'Malley was just a bunch of insane wires. And he had no-one to get weapons from, now that Wyoming was dead. Donut would have the upper hand.

But... but Donut remembered the dampness of Maine's blood on his hands, and the thick coppery smell that had filled the air when Maine was stabbed. Then he remembered the same smell from when Simmons was killed. And remembered O'Malley standing there. Not the killer, not this time, but still indirectly responsible...

But every time the anger started to rise in Donut's stomach, Maine came back into his mind. Covered in blood. That angry snarling... and then he recalled the times before that. Playing video games together and trying to throw handmade jumpers over him. How... normal it had been before Maine attacked him out of the blue.

Donut wondered if Maine had relatives. Mama Julie popped up in Donut's mind. And Mama Liz's sobbing and grief, all that Donut had heard over the phone as he did his best to comfort his remaining mother. Had someone grieved for Maine like that?

Would someone grieve for O'Malley like that?

Somehow, Donut couldn't picture it. But the thought was there.

"_Why do you have something sharp?_"

"Lopez? Uhhh..." Donut shoved the screwdriver under his pillow. "Um. No. I don't have anything sharp. You must be seeing things. I, erm, I haven't seen you around in a while, you... er... um, how's things?"

"_I haven't been around because I don't like the people in these cell blocks. And it is filled with nothing but depression. This I don't like._"

"Yeah... it's been pretty miserable."

"_And I'm not stupid enough to believe I was hallucinating._"

Donut didn't catch the words that time. He was sure he heard something about spontaneous combustion (and he would not like it if Lopez suddenly decided to do that) but then he realised the derisive tone. Lopez had probably called his bluff. It wasn't a very good bluff, anyway.

"Erm, Lopez. You hate O'Malley as well, right?"

"_Yes._"

"Tell me. If you had a screwdriver and a chance to kill him-"

"He'd be dead already."

"Really? No worries about the... ethical dilemmas or..."

"_O'Malley has no ethics. I find no reason to ponder them when dealing with him._"

"Oh."

"_You should have murdered him when you had the chance._"

"Yeah... maybe."

"_I would have done it myself. But Sheila keeps attempting to make me promise I won't, after I let slip that O'Malley deserves to be strangled with his entrails. I do not wish to upset her._"

"I heard... something about skipping rope?"

"_You're an idiot._"

"I know..."

Lopez rolled his eyes and walked off. Donut pulled the screwdriver out again.

Lopez said he should kill O'Malley. He was sure Caboose would be happy if he did. And Church, not that Donut wanted Church to be happy. Jerk. Hell, he couldn't think of a single person who wouldn't be happy at O'Malley's death.

So... why was it so hard to go out there and kill him?


	141. Chapter 132: Almost Normal

**A/N: This is the final chapter that needed to go through edits, so after this chapters will be a bit slow because I have to write new stuff instead of just fixing up old stuff. Just so you know. The next chapter will be an extra flashback one, and then the fic will resume after a timeskip.**

**Chapter One Hundred And Thirty-Two: Almost Normal**

When Flowers pushed open the door to Sarge's office, he found Sarge going through his desk. He was pulling out objects at random and throwing them into a cardboard box.

"You've left packing a bit late, haven't you?" Flowers asked. "When did you say the new warden would be here?"

"Er, about five minutes ago. Sent South down to get them. Maybe they got attacked on the way up," Sarge said hopefully. "Then the new guy will run off and the Chairman will see that I'm the only one with the aggots to keep this job."

"Of course." Flowers sat down. "So, decided what you're going to do after this?"

"I'll probably lie about my age so I can get work somewhere that allows me to fight people. Handsome devil that I am, it won't take too much to convince them."

Flowers chuckled. "Good plan."

"I know. All my plans are good!" Sarge insisted as he tossed an empty whiskey bottle and a pack of cards into the box.

Just then, they heard voices coming from outside.

"And back there was Doc's office. He's apparently a therapist. We thought he was gonna do a shit job, but apparently he got Wash—who's a complete asshole, by the way, loony bin—to talk to him, so the other guards are running a bet on whether Doc has mind control powers or is just really persuasive. But you probably don't care, so anyway... here's Sarge's/your office. Questions?"

"Yes. Do I have to tip you for the tour?"

"Ha."

The doors were shoved open and a woman walked in. She was short and most of her clothing was white.

"Hey. I'm going to take a wild guess and assume you're the former warden and the captain. I was told by that you were a 'lunatic ex-soldier with a ridiculous vendetta against the colour blue' and a 'girly-haired guy who acts like a misplaced elementary school teacher.'"

"Er. I didn't say that," South muttered from outside, quickly leaving before they could call her out on it.

"Oh, perfect. So not only am I being replaced, but I'm being replaced by a woman?" Sarge grumbled.

"Sarge. You're being politically incorrect," Flowers said calmly.

"Shut it, girlylocks. I've got no job here, I can be as politically incorrect to the management as I want." Sarge glared at the new warden. "So, what's your name, lady?"

"Pilot Four-Seven-Niner. I guess just Niner would be less of a mouthful."

"Niner ain't a name."

"Don't you insist that everyone call you Sarge?"

"That ain't the same. Anyhow." Sarge threw the last remaining items into the cardboard box. "You find you can't handle it, just call me back."

"Won't be necessary, Sarge. I got this," Niner said. "I think being female is less of a handicap than being close to dying of old age."

"I'm not that old! I'm only sixty, I've got many years left, just you wait. Besides, I'm sure I can invent some sort of immortality invention, with all the free time I've got now... so we'll see who's laughing when you're shrivelled like a prune and I'm still all springy."

"Yeah, I look forward to it," Niner said dryly.

"Alright, then. I guess that's just about everything, ain't it? Ah, one more thing. Lady, I'm gonna need you to turn around and block your ears."

"What."

"This is a private matter!"

"Then do it outside?"

"Well, if you're going to be difficult about it," Sarge grumbled. "Girlylocks, outside."

Sarge didn't say anything at first. He just started to carry his things down to the parking lot. Flowers followed him patiently, waiting to hear what he wanted to say. He followed Sarge right to the doors that led out into the parking lot. Then Sarge came to a halt and turned around.

"Well. This is it, Girlylocks. And I've got something to say to you." Sarge shifted the box he was holding to his left hand. "You are a diabolical, evil, no-good stinking dirtbag Blue."

"Yes, you've said that before."

"I have, because it's godshonest truth. But." Sarge sighed. "Look. I'm only ever gonna say this once and if you tell anyone that I said it, then I'll bludgeon you with a steamroller."

"Where would you get that?"

"Never mind that now. Flowers... you were a good captain. And even if you were a no-good Blue sympathizer... you did a good job at keeping 'em all inside the walls and were just dandy to play card games with. Couldn't ask for anything more than that, apart from a bit more Red loyalty."

Flowers blinked several times. It took him a while to find his words. "...Wow. Did you just—"

"Yep, that was a compliment. Don't let it get to you." Sarge grinned at him before turning back to the door. "Don't let that lady mess up my prison!"

"I won't." As Sarge shoved open the door, Flowers called out, "We're still going for drinks later, right?"

"Of course, that's a goddamn tradition!"

And with those parting words, Sarge left the prison for the last time. Flowers gazed at the doors for a few moments before turning around and walking back to Sarge's... no, Niner's office.

He had the sneaking suspicion that she'd be more reluctant to play Go Fish.

* * *

"Fuuuuuuuuck!"

Some of Junior's pictures had fallen down. Tucker was attempting to pin them back up, but whenever he attempted it another one fell down.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck."

Tucker would have asked Church to help, but goddammit he could put up a few pictures by himself. So he had thought. By the time he decided that, fuck it, he did need help... well, by then Church had wandered off to go barter with cigarettes.

Tucker heard footsteps going past the cell. It was a good chance that it was someone from this little block of cells, so Tucker quickly stuck his head out into the corridor.

"Hey, er... guy who just went past. Can you help me stick pictures up?"

"Why would I do that? You're a douche." That was Grif's voice.

"Because I'm a sad, blind man?"

"Don't care."

"I'll give you a couple of cigarettes once Church gets back."

"Deal."

He heard Grif step into the cell and pick up the pictures that had drifted to the ground.

"So, where the hell do these go?"

"Er, which ones are you holding?"

"Purple dinosaur and something that looks like a blob of vomit with legs."

"Oh, yeah. Purple dinosaur goes next to the one with the bogeyman hiding underneath the bed."

"Mm. Right."

There was silence for a few moments, interrupted by the slight crinkling noise of paper as Grif stuck the dinosaur picture up with the others.

"So, uh. You alright? You know, with... the grief thing and all?" Tucker asked.

"The fuck do you care?"

"I don't, not much. Just thought I'd ask. I could hear you talking to Sister during visitor's day, you know? Molotov or whatever on Sister's kid, pass it on."

"Molotov? It's mazel tov, you idiot."

"Same difference." Tucker could still sense that Grif was rolling his eyes, though. He knew these things. "Point is, you've been moping around for weeks."

"I'm past it."

"Really? Pin up the vomit monster two more inches to the left, it doesn't look right."

"Doesn't look—you can't fucking see!"

"It's a sixth sense, Grif! I'll throw in an extra cigarette."

"...Fine."

"So... really over it? I'm not speaking from experience here. Only person I've ever lost is my old lady, and we weren't that close. I just figure... I mean, even the thought of losing Junior really fucked me up, so..." Tucker shrugged.

"No. Not over it. Probably won't ever be. ...But I'll manage," Grif said shortly. "Okay, it's two inches to the left. That better, your highness?"

"Yeah, that's good."

"By the way, what's the point of having Junior's pictures up if you can't see them? Shouldn't they be in a box or something?"

"Eh. Maybe. But I like having them up. Just do. Can't say why."

"...You're a weirdo."

"Fuck off."

"I want my cigarettes."

"You wanna wait until Church is here?"

"No."

"Then I'll give them to you later, alright?"

* * *

_Kill O'Malley._

_But I don't want to._

_Yes, you do._

_Okay, that's true, but..._

_Just go for it. Come on, he probably wouldn't be missed. Who the fuck would miss him?_

_I know, but..._

The thoughts just bounced back and forth in Donut's head. Kill him. Don't kill him. Kill him. Don't kill him. And there was no-one that Donut could think of that would give good advice. The only person that wouldn't say 'kill him, he's a dick' is Caboose, and that's only because Caboose would probably use a term like 'meanie' instead of 'dick.'

It was freaking unanimous, so why was he having so much trouble?

Then Donut heard footsteps behind him.

"God, how long can you ponder this crap?"

That was Church's voice. Donut turned around quickly, instinctively moving to shove the screwdriver underneath his sheets before he remembered that he wasn't actually holding it. He was just so used to holding it while pondering that it was second nature by now.

Church crossed his arms, staring at Donut. "Seriously. How long. We both know you're not going to kill O'Malley."

Donut's eyes narrowed. "Don't remember asking you. Who told you, anyway?"

"Caboose. He wanted me to talk to you. He said..." Church put on a slow, dopey voice. "'Church, you are a guy who does not kill things much anymore. So you can talk to Major Cupcake about not killing people. I cannot do that because I am new at not making people fall down.'" He returned to his regular voice. "Fucking retard."

"Well, I don't need you to talk to me. You're a jerk, and I don't listen to jerks," Donut said, turning away.

"Dye-Job, seriously. Of course you don't need it. Because you're not gonna kill O'Malley. I'm just here to stop you moping, because Jesus... it's not like there was a lack of that around here."

"Yeah? Why you so sure? You were the one that said it gets easier to kill people. I've killed a guy before. So why's it so hard to do it again?"

"Key difference here, Dye-Job. I said that it was easier for me to kill people. Now, look at me. Seriously, look. What do you see?"

Donut flopped backwards on his cot, staring at Church upside down. "I see an asshole."

"Exactly." Church waved his hands. "Look, I'm an evil guy. That's all there is to it. Hell, I would have killed O'Malley myself, except that I... well, I promised I'd try to stop killing people. And I'm pushing my luck after the Miller incident. Besides... O'Malley kind of did something for me and I keep remembering it whenever I ponder murdering him."

"He did a thing for you?"

"Yeah. This ain't fucking story time, so let's just say he helped someone that was important to me on the outside, alright? Anyway, back to what I was saying. I'm an evil git. And you, well... you just aren't. You're annoying as all hell, and ridiculously girly to boot, but you aren't evil. Hell, an evil guy wouldn't do things like scream at me for fucking with Caboose's head, or try to get me and Tucker together just because there's 'not enough love in the prison.'" Church grinned in a half-mocking, half-sincere way. "You're just too soft. So you won't kill O'Malley because that's just not what soft pastries do."

"You don't know that," Donut muttered bitterly. "Maybe I've gone stale."

"I know when I'm looking at a murderer. You ain't one. So quit your bitchin', Nancy. Besides, I need to pay you to wash some clothes. They're getting kind of scratchy, and Tucker's been complaining about the itchiness twice as much now that he's blind."

"Get lost, I'm not in the mood."

"Alright, whatever. But you know I'm right."

Church left. Donut stayed where he was, staring at the corridor.

_Screw Church. He's probably messing with my head. That's what he does, because he's a jerk. A mean, mindfucking jerk. He doesn't know me. Screw him._

…

…_..._

…_..._

_Dammit. He's got me figured out._

* * *

Doc was pretty sure O'Malley was barely restraining himself from jumping at him. He looked really twitchy and grumpy today. Seated on the old, lumpy sofa and scowling, his fingers tapping the seat cushions constantly.

Doc tried to pretend the thinly concealed rage wasn't bothering him.

"Now, O'Malley..." Doc attempted to do that 'looking-over-your-glasses-like-you-know-something ' thing that therapists did in movies, but all it did was make his glasses fall off his face. He picked them up quickly, flushing. "Erm, tell me about your childhood."

"Why? Are you going to study me for events that excuse every evil thing I've done?" O'Malley grinned. Combined with the veiled rage, it made him look like a shark. "You'd find it difficult to excuse the things I've done. It would save time to skip childhood."

"Can't skip childhood. It's important."

"Well, in that case..." O'Malley stretched out on the couch, propping his feet up. "It all started when an alien spaceship flew by one day, kidnapped my parents and replaced them with clones. These clones ate nothing but lettuce and cactus. And so, naturally, I was also forced to eat lettuce and cactus. One day they accidentally acquired a cactus filled with tarantulas, and the poison got into my brain and removed whatever causes people to have a conscience."

"Somehow, I get the feeling you're lying to me," Doc mumbled.

"What clued you in?"

"Well, I wasn't sure if tarantulas were poisonous or not..."

"In that case, I'll tell you the real story. In actual fact, I was the real alien in my family. They abducted the real O'Malley when he was a baby. The human O'Malley was then raised to be king on a planet called Omega-3 while I was left behind in his place to disguise the fact that my race was kidnapping humans."

"Can't you give me a straight answer?" Doc asked desperately.

"It is a straight answer," O'Malley said, giggling a little.

Doc sighed, scratching his forehead. "Okay, then... you're an alien. What happened after that? I suppose you're going to tell me that the people you murdered caught you shedding your skin or growing antennas and you had to destroy them to keep your identity?"

"Ohhhh, is that sarcasm, Doc?"

"Possibly."

"Ooh, I like it. About time you added some... variety. Like spices to a well-cooked meal. Delicious."

O'Malley started to shift his position, moving in a way that made Doc sense that he was about to be tackled to the ground. Instinctively, Doc raised his hand.

"Not now. You have more questions to answer."

"Are you trying to boss me around? Being more assertive, are we? Not like you at all..." O'Malley grinned widely. "Taking some influence from Wash, are you? I wouldn't. He's too unstable, that one. He can't be fixed."

"He can be fixed," Doc muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Now, do you want to move onto the next question or do you want to bring this session to a close?"

O'Malley thought about it for a moment. "Well, I'd hate to deprive you of my company," he said finally. "Besides, I like this new assertive Doc. It'll make you more fun to break."

Doc didn't reply to that. Maybe because he knew that was what was likely to happen. O'Malley still scared him. Doc was only stopping himself from shaking because he knew he had the trump card. He could leave and O'Malley couldn't. But that wouldn't hold O'Malley off forever.

And he recalled Wash, and all the stuff that Wash had talked about. He talked about all the things that O'Malley did. Wash had been broken by O'Malley, and if someone like Wash could only withstand three months... albeit three solid months of darkness and both physical and emotional torture... then how long did someone like Doc have?

Anything with O'Malley could only end badly. But he'd worry about that when it happened. Because Doc had therapy to do and people to help. And neither O'Malley nor anyone else was going to chase him away from that.

* * *

Donut removed the screwdriver from its hiding spot behind the sink. He stared down at it, like he had sporadically done for the last few weeks, during the constant 'to kill or not to kill' debate raging through his head.

He knew that he'd keep considering trying to stab O'Malley to death if he still had the screwdriver in reach.

Donut grabbed a jacket that needed cleaning and wrapped the screwdriver up with it. Then he gathered any other dirty laundry he had and left his cell. As he did so, he heard movement from Caboose's cell.

"Admiral Cinnamon Bun? Are you carrying laundry? I need laundry done, as well. My jackets smell funny. Wait for me."

Caboose hurried out of his cell a few moments later, carrying what looked like most of his clothes.

"How long has it been since your clothes got washed?"

"Um. A long time. I kept forgetting."

Caboose followed Donut to the chute where people left their dirty laundry. Donut rarely used the chute, because he liked to clean his clothes himself using fabric softener. But he had no fabric softener at the moment, anyway, and it was much easier to get rid of evidence if he threw it into a pile of stuff that belonged to other inmates. The guards would probably find it and get rid of it.

Donut shoved his pile of laundry, screwdriver included, into the chute. He heard a distinctive clunking noise. The screwdriver had probably untangled itself from the jacket. All the better, then.

"Laundry is not that clunky," Caboose muttered.

"Sometimes it is if it's really smelly," Donut lied.

"Oh. Okay." Caboose shoved his laundry into the chute as well. "Can we go get lunch? I am very hungry."

"Sure." Donut looked sideways at Caboose. "You sent Church to talk to me, right?"

"Um. Did it do any good? If Church was just mean, then no. Tucker did it."

"No, it did good. Thanks." After a few moments of silence, Donut said, "Also, can I ask a question? You've got crazy muscles, right? How do you keep that going in here? I haven't seen any gym equipment or anything?"

Caboose looked down at his arms. "Um. Water bags."

"What?"

"You get plastic bags. And you fill them with water. And then you lift them. They are very heavy. Church made me do it so that I would stay impressive and stop people from trying to hit him."

"Really? Never thought of that..."

Donut did not intend to go after O'Malley. But he was sick of being attacked. He didn't want to be stuck in the hospital wing again. If he got all tough like Caboose was, though... well, he wasn't sure if that was possible, but even if he got just halfway there... then if O'Malley came after him again, he'd be ready.

Plus, looking tougher did have an appeal to it. It fit the surroundings. Being girly kind of clashed with the grey, brick walls.

When he and Caboose got to the cafeteria, they found Church, Tucker and Grif seated at the same table. Grif was arguing with Church.

"Bullshit, man. You can't charge that much for cigarettes."

"What do you expect? Free samples? You only got those ones for free because Tucker's too much of an idiot to pin up a picture by himself."

"Shut up," Tucker mumbled.

As Donut and Caboose sat down, Grif pushed his chair back and grinned at Donut.

"Hey, did you hear? Sarge is gone. We have a new, probably less insane warden."

"Really? Who?"

"Some chick called Niner. Dunno what it is with this prison and hiring people who insist on being referred to by names that don't make sense" Grif glanced around before gesturing at a woman in white clothing who was being shown around the room by Flowers. "That's her."

"She, huh?" Tucker instinctively looked around. "Is she hot?"

"What do you care, you can't tell," Church grumbled.

"I like to imagine."

"So, Dye-Job. You're probably not interested in buying cigarettes, are you?" Church said, turning towards him. Donut wrinkled his nose.

"Cigarettes? Ew." Then a thought occurred to him. "You couldn't acquire candy cigarettes, could you?"

"...Candy cigarettes? Seriously?"

"Yeah. I mean, cigarettes make people look gritty and tough, but candy ones taste better."

"God, you're fruity."

"That's not a no. Come on, you're the guy who can get things now, right? And I need some candy cigarettes. And fabric softener."

"It'll cost you. Candy cigarettes are a specialty item. Probably."

"Worth it."

Months of pain and arguments and death and grief... but now they were back to arguing over trivial things, like nothing had happened at all. It finally felt like things were back to normal.

Although...

Donut stared for a moment at the empty seat next to Grif.

They'd never be entirely the same.


End file.
